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THE HOUSEHOLD BOOK 
OF POETRY. 




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THE 



HOUSEHOLD BOOK 



OF 



POETRY 



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COLLECTED AND EDITED 



CHAREES A. DAISTA 



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A NEW EDITION— THOROUGHLY REVISED AND GREATLY ENLARGED. 



[itlj lUaslratxons, 



NOV 32 id82 ^ /• 



KEW YORK: 
Dc APPLETON AND COMPANY. 

LONDON: 16 LITTLE BRITAIN. 

1883. 



5;. 




COPYEIGHT BY 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

1857, 1866, 1882. 



PREFAC E. 



This collection was first published in 1857, and lias now for the second time 
been carefully revised and enlarged. Some two hundred poems, mostly modern, 
are now for the first time included in its pages ; and, while a number that were 
included in the previous editions have been omitted, it is not believed that any 
one which can justly be described as of the very highest quality will be missed. 

The pubKc approbation of the work having been evinced, not only in the 
popular favor with which it has been received, but in the numerous other collec- 
tions which have been more or less modelled upon it, the original purpose and 
arrangement have been carefully preserved in preparing it in the present more 
comprehensive form. 

This purpose is, to comprise within the bounds of a single volume whatever 
is truly beautiful and admirable among the minor poems of the English lan- 
guage. In executing this design, it has been the constant endeavor of the editor 
to exercise a catholic as well as a severe taste, and to judge every piece upon 
its artistic merits solely, without regard to the name, nationality, or epoch of its 
author. An especial effort has also been made to give every poem entire and 
unmutilated, as well as in the most authentic version which could be procured ; 
though the earliest edition of an author has sometimes been preferred to a later 
one, in which the alterations have not always seemed to be improvements. 

The arrangement of the book may be thought somewhat peculiar, but it is 
hoped that it will be found convenient for the reader, and not altogether devoid 



vi PREFACE. 

of esthetic congruity. The editor also flatters himself that, in classifying so 
many immortal productions of genius according to their own ideas and motives, 
rather than according to their chronology, the nativity or sex of their authors, 
or any other merely external order, he has exhibited the incomparable richness 
of our language in this department of literature quite as successfully as if he 
had followed the methods more frequently adopted in such compilations. 

That every reader should find in these pages every one of his favorite 
poems, is perhaps too much to expect ; but it is believed that, of those on which 
the unanimous verdict of the intelligent has set the seal of indisputable great- 
ness, none of any epoch, whether of English, Scottish, Irish, or American origin, 
will be found wanting. With these remarks, this new edition of the work is 
submitted to the public, in the confident hope that, like its predecessors, it may 
be admitted as the familiar friend of many households, and become a daily com- 
panion both of young and old. 

Novemler, 1882. 



INDEX OF TITLES 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



PAGE 

Afar in the Desert Pringk 59 

Afternoon in February Longfellow 107 

Airs of Spring Carew 3 

Angler, The Chalkhill 13 

Angler's Try sting-Tree, The Stodclart 13 

Angler's Wish, The Wcdton 14 

Angling, Verses in Praise of Wotton 14 

April Keble 5 

Arab to the Palm, The B. Taylor 56 

Arethusa SheUey 34 

Autumn Hood 92 

Autumn Keats 86 

Autumn — A Dirge Shelley 87 

Autumn Flowers Mrs. Southey 83 

Autumn's Sighing Bead 93 

Belfry Pigeon, The Willis 52 

Birch Tree. The Lowell 51 

Birds of KOlingworth, The Longfellow 21 

Black Cock, The Baillie 21 

Blood Horse, The Cornwall 61 

Blossoms, To Herrick 30 

Blow, Blow, thou Winter Wind. . Shakespeare 105 

Bobolink, The Hill ... 15 

Bramble Flower, The Elliott 33 

Brier, The Landor 33 

Broom Flower, The Mai'y Howiit 32 

Bugle Son^ Tennyson 96 

Chambered Nautilus, The 0. W. Holmes 72 

Chiquita Bret Harte 60 

Chorus of Flowers Hunt. . 35 

Cloud, The Shelley 63 

Come to these Scenes of Peace . . Bowles 44 

Coral Grove, The Percival 71 

Cornfields Mary Howitt a3 

Cricket, To a W. C. Bennett 103 

Cricket, The Vincent Bourne 102 

Cuckoo. The LocJcer 16 

Cuckoo, The Logan 16 

Cuckoo, The Wordsworth 16 

Cuckoo and Nightingale, The. . . Chaucer 17 

Daffodils, To Wordswm-th 30 

Daffodils Herrick 30 

Dandelion, The Lowell 33 

Death of the Flowers Bryant 84 

Description of Spring Surrey 3 

Dirge for the Year Shelley 108 

Doubting Heart, A A. A. Procter 103 

Drifting . . Bead 73 

Drmkmg Anacreon 64 

Drop of Dew, A Marvell 6 

Evening Tennyson 97 

Evening, Ode to Collins 97 



Evening Star, The 

Evening Wind, The 

Evening in the Alps 

Fancy 

Fidelity 

Flowers 

Fly, The 

Folding the Flocks 

J'orsaken Garden, A 

Fringed Gentian, The 

Garden, The 

Garden, The 

Glory of Motion, The 

Grasshopper, The 

Grasshopper, The 

Grasshopper, The 

Grasshopper and Cricket 

Grasshopper and Cricket 

Grasshopper. Chirping of 

Greenwood, The 

Grongar Hill 

Gulf -Weed 

Hampton Beach 

Harvest 

Harvest Moon. The 

Holly-Tree. The 

Humble-Bee. The 

Hunter of the Prairies, The 

Hunter's Song. The 

Husbandman. The 

Hymn in the Vale of Chamouni. 

Hymn to Pan 

Hymn to the Flowers 

Hymn to the Spirit of Nature. . . 

Influence of Natural Objects 

Inscription in a Hemiitage 

Invocation to Rain in Summer. . 

Iv.y Green, The 

July 

Lark. The 

Last Rose of Summer, The 

Latter Rain 

Lion and Giraffe, The 

Lion's Ride, The 

Little Beach-Bu:d, The 

Little Streams 

March 

May 

Meadows 

Midges Dance aboon the Burn. . 

Midnight Wind, The 

Midsummer 



PAGE 

Campbell 99 

Bryant 96 

Montgomery 98 

Keats 104 

Wordsivorth 81 

Longfellow 36 

Oldys 55 

Beaumont and Fletcher 96 

Swinburne 91 

Bryant 82 

Marvell 45 

Cowley 46 

Tyrwhitt 61 

Lovelace 53 

Anacreon ( Cowley) 53 

Anacreon ( Cowper) 54 

Hunt 54 

Keats .54 

W. Harte 54 

Bowles 44 

Dyer 94 

Kenner 69 

Whittier 72 

Hutchinson 79 

//. K ^Vhite 100 

B. Southey 105 

Emerson 55 

Bryant 85 

Cornwall 86 

Sterling 82 

S. T. doleridge 110 

Keats 50 

H Smith 37 

Shelley 109 

WordsvjOJ'th 109 

Warton 48 

W. C. Bennett 62 

Dickens 93 

Clare 43 

Hogg 12 

T. Moore 86 

Very 92 

Bringle 58 

Freiiigrath .57 

Dana 70 

Mary Howitt 25 

Wordsworth 5 

Percival. : 7 

Herrick 81 

Tannahill 64 

Motherwell 105 

Trowbridge 43 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



Moonrise 

Morning 

Morning in London 

Mountain Daisy, A 

My Heart 's in ttie Highlands . . 

Nature 

Night is nigh Gone 

Night 

Night 

Nightingale, Address to the 

Nightingale, To the 

Nightingale. The 

Nightingale's Departure, The. .. 

Nightingale, Ode to the 

Night Song 

North Wind 

November 

Oasis of Sidi Khaled 

Owl 

Pan 

Peel Castle 

Philomena 

Primroses, with Morning Dew . . 

Question 

Rain on the Roof 

Redbreast, To the 

Retirement 

Return of Spring 

Reve du Midi 

Revisiting the Banks of the Wye 

Rhodora, The 

Robin Redbreast 

Rose, The 

Sabbath Morning 

Sand-Piper, The 

Sea, At 

Sea, The 

Seaweed 

Seneca Lake, To 

Sensitive Plant, The 

Skylark, The 

Sleep 

Small Celandine, The 

Snow-Storm, The 



PAGE 

E. Jones 99 

Shakespeare 10 

Wordswoi'th 9 

Burns 28 

Burns 85 

Very 31 

A . Montgomery 9 

Shelley 99 

J. Blanco Wliite 101 

Barnfield 38 

Milton 38 

S. T. Coleridge 40 

a. Smith 42 

Keats 39 

Claudius 100 

Mulock- Craik 106 

H. Coleridge 94 

Blunt 58 

Anonymous 102 

Beaumont and Fletcher 51 

Wordsworth 70 

M. Arnold 40 

Herrick 29 

SheUey 27 

Kinney '. . 62 

Drummond 107 

Cotton 49 

Ronsard 3 

Mrs.E. T. Cooke 50 

Wordsworth 78 

Emerson 31 

Allingham 80 

E. Waller 34 

Leyden 9 

Thaxter 71 

Trowbridge 08 

Cornwall 66 

Longfelloio 69 

Percival 74 

Shelley 87 

■Shelley 10 

Martin 103 

Wordsworth 28 

Emerson 107 



Song for September, A 

Song for the Seasons, A 

Song — On May Morning 

Song — Phffibus, arise 

Song to May 

Song — The Lark 

Song — Pack Clouds away 

Song of the Brook 

Song of Spring 

Song — The Greenwood Tree . . . 

Song — The Owl 

Second Song — To the Same 

Sonnet — Autumn Moon 

Sonnet — To a Bird that haunted 

the Waters of Lake Laaken. . . 

Sonnet — Die down, dismal day ! 

Spice-Tree, The 

Spring 

Spring 

Spring 

Still Day in Autumn, A 

Storm Song 

Stormy Petrel, The 

Summer Longings 

Summer Months 

Tacking Ship 

Tiger, The 

Trailing Arbutus 

Twilight 

Violet, The 

Violets 

Voice of the Grass 

Wandering Wind, The 

Waterfowl, To a 

Water ! The Water 

West Wind, Ode to the 

Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea. . . 

Wlien the Hounds of Spring 

Willow Song 

Windy Night, The 

Woods in Winter 

YaiTow Unvisited 

Yarrow Visited 

Yarrow Revisited 



PAGE 

80 

Cmmwall 108 

Milton 6 

Drummond 7 

Thurlow 8 

H. Coleridge 12 

Hey wood 12 

Tennyson 26 

Youl 31 

Shakespeare 44 

Tennyson 101 

Tennyson 101 

Thurhio 100 

Thurlow 107 

David Gray 108 

Sterling 56 

Anacreon 6 

Beaumont and Fletcher 7 

Tennyson 4 

S.B.Whitman 82 

B. Taylor 68 

Cornwall 67 

McCarthy 8 

Motherwell 9 

Mitchell 66 

Blake 57 

Mrs.E. T. Cooke 31 

Longfellow 68 

Stm-7j 34 

Herrick 29 

Moberts 42 

Hemans 64 

Bryant 42 

Motherwell 26 

Shelley 65 

Cunningham 67 

Swinburne 4 

Hemans... 52 

Bead 104 

Longfellow 106 

Wordsworth 74 

Wm'dsworth 75 

Wordsworth 76 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



Adopted Child, The Hemans 142 

Among the Beautiful Pictures. . . Alice Gary 151 

Angel's Whisper, The Lover 116 

Annie in the Graveyard Oilman 146 

Baby May W. C. Bennett 113 

Baby's Shoes W. C. Bennett 150 

Ballad of the Tempest, A Fields 146 

Boyhood Allston 141 

Casa Wappy Moir 156 

Child and the Watcher, The 3Irs. Browning 117 

Child Asleep Surville 1'18 

Child Praying, A Willmott 148 

Children Landor 120 

Children in the Wood Anonymous 138 

Children's Hour, The Longfelloxo 144 

Choosing a Name M. Lamb 114 

Christening, The C. Lamb 114 

Cradle Song, A /. Watts 160 

Cuddle Doon A. Anderson 115 

Danae Simonides 141 

Dead Doll, The Vandegrift 116 

Fairy Child, The Anster 120 

For Charlie's Sake Palmer 158 

Gambols of Children Darley 133 

Gipsy's Malison, The C. Lamb 118 

Her Eyes are Wild Wordsworth 141 

I Remember, I Remember Hood 144 

Introduction Blake 113 



Lady Ann Bothwell's Lament. . . Anonymous 140 

Little Bell Westwood 147 

Little Black Boy, The Blake 147 

Little Boy Blue Anonymous 126 

Little Red Riding Hood Landon 127 

Little Vagabond, The Blake 133 

Loss and Gain Perry 158 

Lucy Wordsworth 148 

Lucy Gray Wordsworth 143 

Lullaby Tennyson.. 114 

Morning Glory, The Mrs. Loioell 150 

Mother^ Heart, The Norton 123 



Mother's Hope, The, 
Mother's Love, The, 

My Child 

On a Distant Prospect of Eton 

On the Death of an Infant 

On the Picture of an Infant . 

Open Window, The Longfdkm 149 

Pet Lamb, The Wordsivorth 124 

Philip my King Mulock- Craik 117 

Pied Piper of Hamelin, The P. Browning 128 



Blanchard 122 

Burbidge 124 

Pierpont 157 

T. Gray 137 

Smits 149 

Leonidas 120 



Reconciliation, The 
Saturday Afternoon. 
Schoolmistress, The 
She Came and Went 
Shepherd Boy, The. 
Three Sons, The 



Tennyson 160 

Willis 133 

Shenstone 133 

Lowell 150 

Landon 126 

Moultrie 151 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



PAGE 

Threnody Emerson 153 

To a Child Hood 119 

To a Child Sterling 122 

To a Child during Sickness Hunt 121 

To George M T. Miller 131 

To Hartley Coleridge Wordsworth 131 

To J. H Hunt 118 



PAGE 

To my Daughter Hood 126 

Under my Window Westwood 145 

Visit from St. Nicholas, A C. C. Moore 131 

We are Seven Wordsworth 145 

Widow and Child, The Tennyson 159 

Willie Winkie W. Miller 115 



POEMS OF FEIENDSHIP. 



And doth not a Meeting like this 

Auld Lang Syne 

Ballad of Bouillabaisse 

Cape Cottage at Sunset 

Champagne Rose 

Christmas 

Come, Send round the Wine 

Early Friendship 

Farewell I But whenever 

Fill the Bumper Fair 

Fire of Drift- Wood, The 

From " In Memoriam." 

Good Time Coming, The 

Good Time Going, A 

How Stands the Glass Around . . 

Jaffar 

Journey Onwards, The 



Moore 174 

Burns 178 

Thackeray 176 

Glazier 169 

Kenyon 173 

Wither 183 

Moore 175 

De Vere 163 

Moore 175 

Moore 173 

Longfellow 168 

Tennyson 165 

Mackay 180 

Holmes 181 

Anonymous 174 

Hunt 168 

179 



Mahogany Tree, The 

Night at Sea 

Old Familiar Faces, The 

Passage, The 

Qua Cursum Ventus 

Saint Peray 

Sonnets 

Sparkling and Bright 

Stanzas to Augusta 

To Lady Anne^Hamilton 

To my Companions 

To Thomas Moore 

We have been Friends Together. 

What might be Done 

When shall we three meet again. 

Winter Wish, A 

Wreathe the Bowl 



Thackeray 181 

Landon 178 

C. Lamb 170 

TMand 168 

Ckmgh 169 

Parsons 177 

Shakespeare 163 

Hoffman 173 

Byron 170 

W.R.Spencer 170 

Channing 181 

Byron 175 

Mrs. Norton 171 

Mackay 182 

Anonymous 163 

Messinger 171 

Moore 172 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Absence 

Address to a Lady 

Allan Percy 

Annabel Lee 

Annie Laurie 

Annoyer, The 

Ask me no more 

Atalanta's Race 

At the Church Gate 

Auld Robin Gray 

Aux Italiens 

Awakening of Endymion, The. . 
Bailiff's Daughter of Islington, 

The 

Ballad — It was not in the Winter 

Ballad — Sigh on, sad heart 

Beauty Clear and Fair 

Bertha in the Lane 

Blest as the Immortal Gods 

Blissful Day, The 

Bonnie Leslie 

Bridal of Andalla, The 

Brook-side, The 

Burial of Love, The 

Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes . . . 

Castara 

Changes 

Cheat of Cupid, The 

Chronicle, The 

Come away. Death 

Come into the Garden, Maud 

Coming through the Rye 

Crabbed Age and Youth 

Courtin', The 

Day-dream, The 

Deceitfulness of Love 

Discourse with Cupid 

Disdain Returned 

Divided 



3Irs. KenMe 281 

Burns 267 

Mrs. Norton 322 

Poe 325 

Douglas 267 

Wiliis 287 

Tennyson 300 

W. Morris 187 

Thackeray 275 

Lady Barnard 316 

Lytton 327 

Landon 279 

Anonymous 206 

Hood 278 

Hood 294 

Beaumont and Fletcher 251 

Mrs. Browning 317't 

Sappho 261 

Burns 344 

Burns 268 

Anonymous. 221 

Mines 277 

Bryant 332 

Burns 264 

Habington 253 

Lytton 323 

Anacreon 286 

Cowley 283 

Shakespeare 257 

Tennyson 273 

Anonymous 288 

Shakespeare 284 

Lowell 291 

Tennyson 222 

Anonyjnous 286 

Jonson 249 

Carew 254 

Ingelow 298 



Doris : A Pastoral 

Dream, The 

Earl o' Quarterdeck, The 

Epithalamion 

Epithalamium 

Eve of St. Agnes, The 

Evelyn Hope 

Excuse 

Fair Ines 

Fairest Thing in Mortal Eyes. . . 

Farewell to Nancy 

Fate 

Fireside. The 

First and Last 

Florence Vane 

Fly not yet 

Fly to the Desert 

Forsaken Merman, The 

Friar of Orders Gray, The 

Girl of Cadiz, The 

Glove, The 

Golden Wedding. The 

Go where Glory Waits Thee 

Groomsman to his Mistress. The 

Health, A ' 

Hebrew Wedding, The 

Heliotrope 

Here 's a Health 

Hermit, The 

Highland Mary 

If I Desire with Pleasant Songs. 
If thou wert by my Side, my Love 

I Give thee Eternity 

In a Year 

Indifference 

Irish Melody, An 

Jeanie Morrison 

Jenny Kissed Me 

Jock of Hazeldean 



Munby 236 

Bxjron 296 

MacDonald 202 

Spenser 334 

Brainard 339 

Keats 217 

R. Broivning 325 

M. Arnold 321 

Hood 268 

Charles of Orleans 331 

Bums 265 

Anonymous 258 

Cotton 341 

Anonymous 303 

P. P. Cooke 323 

Moore 285 

Moore 269 

M. Arnold 320 

Percy 208 

Byron 263 

R. Browning 210 

David Gray 344 

Moore ' 269 

Parsons 282 

Pinckney 278 

Milman 333 

Anonymous 315 

Burns 265 

Goldsmith 212 

Burns 326 

Burbidge 287 

Heber 340 

Drayton 245 

R. Browning 301 

M. Arnold 322 

J.F. Waller 271 

Motherwell 311 

Hunt 293 

Sir W.Scott 238 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



John Anderson 

Kulnasatz, my Reindeer 

Lady Clare 

Lady Geraldine's Courtship 

Laird o' Cockpen, The 

Laodamia 

Lass of Ballochmyle 

Lecture upon the Shadow, A 

Letters, The 

.Let us Kiss and Part 

Lines to an Indian Air 

Lochinvar 

Locksley Hall 

Lord Lovel 

Love 

Love in the Valley 

Love is a Sickness 

Love Me Little, Love Me Long. . 

Love Not 

Love not Me 

Love Song 

Lovely Mary Donnelly 

Lover to the Glow-worms 

Love's Philosophy 

Maid of Athens, ere we Part 

Maiden's Choice, The 

Maid's Lament, The 

Mariana in the South 

Match, A 

Maud Muller 

Memorable Dessert, A 

Milk-Maid's Song, The 

Milk-Maid's Mother's Answer.. . 

Miller's Daughter, The 

Minstrel's Song 

Misconceptions 

Mrs. Eliz. Wheeler 

Molly Carew 

My Dear and Only Love 

My Held is like to Rend, Willie. 

My Love 

My Love has Talked 

My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing 

Nice Correspondent, A 

Night-Piece 

Nocturne 

Not Ours the Vows 

Nun, The 

Oh, that 'twere possible 

Old Story, The 

One Way of Love 

Orpheus to Beasts 

Our Love shall Live 

Outlaw, The 

Panglory's Wooing Song 

Phillida and Corydon 

Philomela's Ode 

Poet's Bridal-Day Song, The. . . , 

Poet's Song to his Wife 

Red, Red ftose, A 

Remembrance 

Riding Down 

Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale. . . 

Rory O'More 

Rose and the Gauntlet, The 

Ruth 

Seaman's Happy Return, The, . . 

Serenade 

Serenade 

Shall I Tell 

She is a Maid of Artless Grace. . 

She is far from the Land 

Shepherd's Resolution, The 

Songs : — A weary lot 

Ask me no more 

Day in melting purple. . 



PAGE 

Bums 344 

Anonymous 261 

Tennyson 236 

Mrs. Browning 226 

Lady Nairne 214 

Wordsworth 329 

Burns 266 

Donne 247 

Tennyson 241 

Drayton 256 

smiey 262 

Sir W.Scott 238 

Tennyson 303 

Anonymous 204 

Coleridge 224 

Meredii/i 240 

Da?iiel 248 

Anonymous 250 

Mrs. Norton 332 

Anonymous 258 

Darky 278 

Allingham 270 

Marvell 252 

Shelley 263 

Byron 262 

Anonymous 284 

Landor 293 

Tennyson 302 

Swinburne 251 

Whiiiier 314 

Anonymous 288 

Marlowe 258 

Maleigh 259 

Tennyson 277 

Chatterton 324 

E. Browning 294 

Herr-ick 252 

Lover 289 

Montrose 259 

Motherwell 312 

Lowell 276 

Tennyson 339 

Burns 342 

Locker 292 

Herrick 25"? 

T.B.Aldrich 284 

Baiion 339 

Hunt 284 

Tennyson 308 

Anonymous 237 

R. Browning 294 

Lovelace 309 

Spenser 242 

Sir W.Scott 239 

G. Fletcher 253 

Breton 247 

Greene 256 

Cunningham 343 

Cornwall 343 

Burns 266 

Bronte 310 

Perry 281 

Anonymous 204 

Lover 288 

Sterling 313 

Hood 275 

Anonymous 216 

Hood 277 

Pinckney 277 

Browne .*. 250 

Gil Vicente 270 

Moore 326 

Wither 285 

Sir W.Scott 303 

Carew 256 

Brooks 282 



Songs : — Gather ye rose-buds. . . 

How delicious 

How should I your true- 
love know ? 

I bade thee stay 

I went to her 

Love me, if I live 

O lady, thy lover is 

dead 

She is not fair 

Sing the old song 

The heath this night . , . 

To thy lover 

Why so pale 

Song of Autumn, A 

Sonnets: — I know that all 

If it be true 

The doubt which ye 

misdeem 

The might of one fair 

face 

To one excusing his 

poverty 

To one who would 

make a confession. . 

To Vittoria Colonna. . 

Sonnets 

Sonnets 

Sonnets from the Portuguese . . . 

Spanish Lady's Love, The 

Speak, Love 

Spinning-Wheel Song, The 

Stanzas — Oh, talk not to me . . . 

Stanzas for Music 

Summer Days 

Summer Reminiscence, A 

Sweet William's Farewell 

Sylvia 

Syr Cauline 

Take, oh take those lips away. ■! 

Tell me, my heart 

The bloom hath fled thy cheek. . 
The Dule's i' this Bonnet o' mine 

Then 

There's nae luck about the house 
Thou hast Vowed by thy Faith. . 

To 

To Althea— From Prison 

To Celia 

To Lucasta 

To Lucasta 

To Mary in Heaven 

Tomb, The 

Too Late 

Triumph of Charis, The 

Truth's Integrity 

Waly, Waly 

Wanderer, The 

Watching 

We Parted in Silence 

Welcome, The 

Welcome, Welcome 

Were I but his Own Wife 

West Point 

When the Grass shall Cover me. 

When thou art near me 

When we Two Parted 

White Rose. The -j 

Widow Machree 

Winifreda 

Wish, A 

You Meaner Beauties 

Young Beichan and Susie Pie. . . 
Zara's Ear-rings 



PAGE 

Herrick 333 

Campbell 282 

Shakespeare 257 

S. H. Whitman 293 

O'Shavghnessy 295 

Cornwall 272 

MacDonald 326 

H. Coleridge 250 

De Vere 279 

Sir W. Scott 264 

Crashaw 255 

Suckling 285 

Hodd 293 

Drummond 245 

Michel Angelo 245 

Spenser 332 

Michel Angelo 262 

Blount 247 



Blunt 

Michel Angelo 

Shakespeare 

Sidney 

Mrs. Browning 

Anonymous 

Beaumont and Fletcher 

J. F. Waller 

Byron 

Byron 

Anonymous 

Shepherd 

Gay 

Darley 

Anonymous 

Shakespeare and J. 

Fletcher 

Lyitelton 

Motherwell 

Waugh 

Mrs. Cooke 

Adam, 

Cunningham 

Shelley 

Lovelace 

Philostratus 

Lovelace 

Lovelace 

Burns 

Stauley 

Mulock- Craik 

Jonson 

Anonymous 

Anonymous 

Dobson 

Judson 

Crawford 

Davis .- 

Browne 

Downing 

Strong 

Anonymous 

Lady Scott 

Byron 

Congreve and Somer- 

ville 

Lover 

Anonymous 

Bogers 

Wotton 

Anonymous 

Anonymous 



247 
245 
242 
244 
246 
209 
251 
236 
292 
264 
274 
274 
215 
,279 
195 

252 
249 
310 
271 
319 
265 
267 
263 
255 
249 
254 
255 
327 
257 
243 
248 
206 
311 
287 
342 
300 
272 
261 
272 
295 
324 
258 
300 

248 
290 
333 
340 
252 
200 
225 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



Alfred the Harper 

American Flag, The 

Ave Imperatrix 

Ballad of Agincourt, The 

Banuock-Burn 

Barbara Frietchie 

Bard, The 

Battle-Autumn, The 

Battle-Field, The 

Battle of the Baltic, The 

Bivouac of the Dead, The 

Black Regiment, The 

Blue and the Gray, The 

Boadicea 

Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee 

Border Ballad 

Broadswords of Scotland, The.. 

Bull-Fight of Gazul, The 

Cameronian's Dream, The 

Carmen Bellicosum 

Casablanca 

Cavalier's Song 

Charge of the Light Brigade . . . 

Charlie is ray Darling 

Chevy Chase 

Covenanter's Battle-Chant 

Destruction of Sennacherib 

Excelsior 

Fontenoy 

Fredericksburg 

Gallant Grahams, The 

George Nidiver 

Give a Rouse 

God Save the King 

Hame. Hame, Hame 

Harmodious and Aristogeiton . . . 
Harp that once through Tara's 

Halls 

Here's a Health to them that's 

avva' 

Herv6 Kiel 

Hohenlinden 

Horatian Ode 

Horatius 

How they brought the good news 

Hymn 

Incident of the French Camp . . . 

Indian Death-Song 

Indian Death-Soug 

It is Great for our Country to Die 



PAGE 

Sterling 356 

Drake 391 

0. Wilde 400 

Drayton 363 

Burns 369 

Whittier 395 

T. Gray 364 

Whittier 393 

Bryant 393 

Campbell 403 

O'Hara 399 

Boker 396 

Finch 398 

Cowper 355 

Sir W. Scott 375 

Sir yv. Scott 379 

LocTchart 381 

Anonymous 358 

Hyslop 374 

McMaster 389 

Mrs. Hemans 408 

Motherwell 366 

Tennyson 402 

Anonymous 376 

Anonymous 359 

Motherwell 373 

Byron 353 

Lonqfellow 420 

Davis 382 

T.B.Aldrich 394 

Anonymous 377 

Anonymous 416 

R. Browning 369 

Anonymous 384 

Cunningham^ 380 

Callistralus ' 354 

Moore 383 

Burns 377 

Ji. Browning 409 

Campbell 400 

Marcell 371 

Macaulay 347 

H. Browning 385 

Emerson 388 

M. Browning 400 

Hunter 387 

Schiller 375 

Percival 354 



Ivry 

Kenmure's On and Awa' 

Knight's Leap, The 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. 

Last Word, The 

Leonidas 

Lochaber No More 

Lochiel's Warning 

Marco Bozzaris 

Memory of the Dead, The 

Monterey 

My Ain Countree 

Naseby 

Ode — How Sleep the Brave 

Ode — What Constitutes a State. 
Old-Fashioned Sea-Fight, An. . . 

Old Politician, The 

O Mother of a Mighty Race 

On a Bust of Dante 

On a Sermon against Glory 

On Planting Arts and Learning 

in America 

Our Fallen Heroes 

Our State 

Peace to the Slumberers 

Pericles and Aspasia 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 

Pilgrim, The 

Pilgrim Fathers, The 

Place where Man should Die 

Prince Eugene 

Private of the Bufis, The 

Relief of Lucknovv, The 

RoU-Call, The 

Sea-Fisht, The 

Shan ^an Vocht 

Sight in Camp, A 

Song 

Song of Marion's Men , 

Song of the Cornish Men 

Song of the Greek Poet 

Sonnets 

Sonnets 

Star-spangled Banner, The 

Veteran and Recruit 

Vigil Strange I kept 

Wae's me for Prince Charlie 

When Banners are Waving 

Ye Gentlemen of England 

Ye Mariners of England 



PAGE 

Macaulay 367 

Burns 377 

Kingsley 386 

Mrs. Hemans 387 

M. Arnold 419 

Croly 355 

Ramsay 376 

Campbell 378 

Halleck 412 

Ingram 413 

Hoffman 392 

Cunningham 381 

Macaulay 369 

Collins 384 

Sir W. Jones 418 

W. Whitman 404 

Buchanan 415 

Bryant 391 

Parsons 418 

Akenside 419 

Berkeley 388 

Griffith 397 

Whittier .: 392 

Moore 384 

Croly 356 

Sir W. Scott 379 

Bunyan 420 

Pierpont 388 

Barry 419 

Anonymous 366 

Doyle 415 

Lowell 414 

Shepherd 394 

Anonyi7ious 405 

Anonymous 385 

W. Whitman 397 

Moore 383 

Bryant 389 

Hawker 383 

Byron 411 

31ilton 372 

Wordsworth 417 

Key 390 

Hazewell 384 

W. Whitman 397 

Glen 380 

Anonymous 373 

31. Parker 407 

Campbell 403 



POEMS OF COMEDY, 



Ballad 

Battle of Limerick, The 

Clam-Soup 

Cologne 

Devil's Thoughts. The 

Dragon of Wantley, The 

Elegy on a Mad Dog 

Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize 

Essence of Opera . . .■ 

Faithless Nelly Gray 

Faithless Sally Brown 

Farewell to Tobacco, A 

Flight of the Duchess, The 

Friend of Humanity and Knife- 

Grinder 

Good Ale 



Inland 483 

Thackeray 474 

Crofut 462 

S. i". Coleridge 460 

S. T. Coleridge 460 

Anonymous 427 

Goldsmith 432 

Goldsmith 455 

Anony7nous 463 

Hood 465 

Hood 466 

C. Lamb 464 

li. Browning 441 

Canning 461 

Still 428 



Groves of Blarney, The 

Hag. The 

Hans Breitmann's Party 

Heir of Linne, The 

Hypochondriacus 

Irishman, The 

John Gilpin, Diverting History of 

Jovial Beggar. The 

King John and the Abbot of 

Canterbury 

Lady at Sea, The 

Malbrouck 

Massacre of the Macpherson . . . 

Midges 

Mr. Molony's Account of the Ball 
Molony 's Lament 



Milliken 473 

Hen'ick 461 

Leland 483 

Anonymous 423 

C. Lamb 463 

Maginn 473 

Cowper 452 

Anonymous 429 

Anonymous 426 

Hood 467 

Anonymous 430 

Aytoun 456 

Lytton 477 

Thackeray 476 

Thackeray 475 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



-^^ 



4^ > PAGE 

Om-and Young Courtier, The. . . Anonymmis 431 

Old Time and I Lemon 483 

Origin of Ireland, The Anonymous 470 

Plain Language from Truthful 

James B. Harte 483 

Rape of the Lock, The Pope 433 

Receipt for Salad, A S. Smith 463 

St. Anthony's Sermon to the 

Fishes Anonymous 478 

St. Patrick of Ireland, my Dear. Maginn 472 

St. Patrick was a Gentleman H. Bennett 471 

Sir Sidney Smith T. Dibdin 456 



Song of One Eleven Years in 

Prison 

Take thy Old Cloake about Thee 

Tam o' Shanter 

True-hearted Ben 

Twenty-eight and Twenty-nine. . 

Vicar, The 

Vicar of Bray, The 

War-Song of Dinas Vawr 

What Mr. Robinson Thinks 

White Sqiiall, The 

Willie's Visit to Melville Castle. 



Canning 463 

Anonymous 439 

Burns 4.57 

Anonymous 470 

Praed 481 

Prmd 480 

Anonymcms 479 

Peacock 457 

Lowell 484 

Thackeray 468 

Anonymous 455 



POEMS OF TEAGEDY AND SORROW. 



Beth Gllert 

Bonnie George Campbell 

Braes of Yarrow, The 

Break, Break, Break 

Bridal Dirge 

Bridal Song and Dirge 

Bridge of Sighs, The 

Burial of Sir John Moore 

Casile by the Sea, The 

Coronach 

Cruel Sister, The 

Daedalus 

Days that are no more. The 

Death-Bed, The 

Death-Bed, A 

Dirge 

Dirge 

Dirge 

Dirge 

Dirge 

Dirge for a Soldier 

Dirge for a Young Girl 

Dirge in Cymbeline 

Dirge of Imogen 

Dirge of Jephthah's Daughter. . . 

Douglas Tragedy. The 

Dowe Dens of Yarrow, The 

Drake, on the Death of 

Dream-land 

Dream of Eugene Aram, The . . . 

Edward, Edward 

Elegy on Captain Henderson 

Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H 

Exequy, The 

Pair Helen 

Fishermen, The 

Fishing Song 

Funeral Hymn, A 

Funeral of Charles I 

Gane were but the Winter Cauld 

Hester 

Hood, to the-Meraory of 

How 's my Boy 1 

Hunter's Vision, The 

Ichabod 

Inchcape Rock, The 

In Remembrance of the Hon. 

Edward Ernest Villiers 

Iphigenia and Agamemnon 

King of Denmark's Ride, The. . . 
Lament, A 



Spencer 517 

Anonymous 496 

Hamilton 489 

Tennyson 566 

Cornwall 553 

Beddoes 553 

Hood 536 

Wolfe .556 

Vhland .563 

Sir W.Scott .548 

Anonymous 493 

Sterling 508 

Tennyson 566 

Hood 541 

J. Aldrich 541 

Tennyson 549 

W. S. Soscoe 551 

Beddoes 552 

Eastman 553 

Mrs. Hemam 553 

BoTcer 558 

Fields 553 

Collins 551 

Shakespeare 550 

Herrick 550 

Anonymous 491 

Anonymous 488 

Halleck 559 

C. G. Rossetti 563 

Hood 534 

Anonymaus 494 

Burns .545 

Ben Jonson 554 

King 547 

Anonymcms 497 

Kingsley 512 

Mrs. Cooke 565 

Mallett 546 

Bowles 556 

Cunningham 548 

C.Larnb 541 

Simmons • 558 

Dobell 52:3 

Bryant ,528 

Whiftier 554 

Southey 520 

H. Taylor 544 

Landor 509 

Mrs. Norto'h 517 

Shelley 561 



Lament 

Lament of the Border Widow. . . 
Lament of the Irish Emigrant. . . 

Lamentation for Celin 

Last Journey, The 

Lord Randal 

Lord Ullin's Daughter 

Lost Leader, The 

Lycidas 

Mariner's Dream, The 

M'Pherson's Farewell 

May Queen, The 

Mother and Poet 

Mother's Last Song, The 

Nymph Complaining for the 

Death of her Fawn 

Oh ! Breathe not his Name 

Oh ! Snatched away 

Old Mirror, The 

On the Loss of the Royal George 

Over the Range 

Pauper's Death-Bed, The 

Pauper's Drive, The 

Peace ! Wliat do Tears Avail ? . . 

Phantom, The 

Poet's Epitaph, A 

Prisoner of Chillon, The 

Proud Maisie is in the Wood 

Rare Willy Drowned in Yarrow. . 

Sea, The 

She wore a wreath of roses 

Sir Patrick Spens 

Snow-Storm, A 

Softly Woo away her Breath 

Sohrab and Rufctum 

Solitude 

Song — O Mary, go 

Song — Yarrow Stream 

Song of the Shirt, The 

Song of the Silent Land 

The Moon was A-Waning 

Tom Bowling 

Tonmry 's Dead 

Twa Brothers, The 

Twa Corbies, The 

Very Mournful Ballad, A 

Voiceless, The 

Warden of the Cinque Ports, The 

When I Beneath 

Wreck of the Hesperus, The 

Young Airly 



Shelley 

Anonymous 

Lady Dufferin . . 

Anonynious 

Mrs. Southey 

Anonymous 

Campbell 

Browning 

Milton 

Bimond 

Burns 

Tennyson. 

3l7's. Browning. 
Coi'nwall 



Marvell 

Moore 

Byron. 

S. H. Whitman. . 

Cowper 

Mills 

Mrs. Southey 

Noel 

Coi'uwaU 

B. Taylor 

Elliott 

Byron 

Sir W. Scott .... 

Anonymous 

R. H. Stoddard . 

Bayly 

Anonymous 

Eastman 

Cornwall 

M. Arnold 

H K. White .... 

Kingsley 

Logan 

Hood 

Salis 

Hogg 

Bibdin 

Dobell 

Anonymous ... . 

Anonymous 

Anonymous 

Holmes 

Longfellow 

Motherwell 

Longfellow 

Anonymous 



563 
497 
535 
.509 
539 
492 
518 
555 
543 
532 
497 
529 
563 
537 

534 
549 

548 
565 
.519 
561 
.539 
540 
541 
554 
560 
512 
555 
491 
517 
535 
487 
527 
528 



561 
498 
491 
538 
539 
523 
524 
532 
495 
496 
510 
563 
557 
560 
520 
526 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Ariel's Songs 

Comus 

Culprit Fay, The 

Fairies, The 

Fairies' Farewell, The 

Fairies of the Caldon Low, The. 

Fairies' Song, The 

Fairy Queen, The 

Fairy Song 

Green Gnome, The 

Hylas 

Kilmeny 

Kin" Arthur's Death 

KulHa Khan 

La Belle Dame sans Merci 

Lady of Shallott, The 



PAGE 

Shakespeare 595 

Milton 599 

Drake 585 

Allingham 592 

Corbett 593 

Mary Eowitt 683 

Anonymcms 5?8 

Anonymous 577 

Keats 578 

Buchanan 594 

B. Taylor 610 

Hogg 579 

Anonymous 569 

S. T. Coleridffe 614 

Keats 579 

Tennyson 597 



Lorelei, The 

Merry Pranks of Kohin Good- 
Fellow 

Morte d' Arthur 

Oh ! Where do Fairies Hide 

Kaven, The 

Ehoecus 

Eime of the Ancient Mariner 

Song — A Lake and a Fairy-Boat 

Song — Hear, Sweet Spirit 

Song of Fairies 

Song of the Fairy 

Thomas the Rhj-iner 

Water Fay, The 

Water Lady, The 

Wee, Wee Man, The 



TASE 

ffeine 585 

Anonymous 576 

Tennyson 571 

Bayly 584 

Foe 623 

Lowell 612 

S. T. Coleridge 615 

Hood 596 

S. T. Coleridge 595 

Randolph 579 

Hhakespeare 578 

Anonymous 574 

Heine 596 

Hood 596 

Anonymous 575 



POEMS OP SENTIMENT AND KEFLECTION. 



Abou Ben Adhem 

Address to the Mummy 

Age of Wisdom, The 

Alexander's Feast 

All Earthly Joy Returns in 

Pain 

Allegro, L' 

All 's Well ! 

Anacreon, On 

Anchorsmiths, The 

Angel in the House, An 

An Old Poet to Sleep 

Arranmore 

Arsenal at Springfield, The. . . . 

Bacchanalia 

Bacchus 

Balder 

Barclay of Ury 

Battle of Blenheim, The 

Be Patient 

Bells, The 

Bella of Shandon, The 

Brahma 

Bucket, The 

Burial of the Poet 

Bums 

Burns, On the Death of 

Canadian Boat-Song 

Chapman's Homer, On 

Charade 

Chartres Cathedral, Ji\ 

Contented Mind, A 

Contemplate all this Work 

Cotter's Saturday Night, The. . . . 

Cowper's Grave 

Crowded Street, The 

Cry from the Sliore, A 

Day of the Lord, The 

Death Carol 

Death of the Virtuous 

Death's Pinal Conquest 

Dejection — An Ode 

Delight in Disorder 

Deserted Village, The 

Despondency Rebuked 

Each and All 

Egyptian Serenade 

Elegy written in a Country 

Churchyard 



Hunt 642 

H. Smith 639 

Thackeray 729 

Dry den 666 

Dunbar 629 

Milton 698 

Butler 762 

Antijjater 678 

Dibdin 645 

Hunt 769 

Landor 765 

Moore 744 

Longfellmv 650 

M. Arnold 746 

Emerson 719 

Arumymous 638 

Whittier 635 

B. Southey 649 

Anonymous 748 

Foe 665 

Mahony 664 

Emerson 714 

Woodworth 652 

Longfellow 774 

Whittier 691 

Foscoe 689 

uVoore 673 

Keats 692 

Fraed 693 

Bodd 777 

Sylvester 702 

Tennyson 744 

Burns 753 

Mrs. Browning 685 

Bryant 717 

Hutchinson 648 

Kingsley ... 747 

W. Whitman 786 

3Irs. Barbauld 782 

Shirley , 763 

Coleridge 726 

Herrick 674 

Goldsmith 654 

Cloagh 652 

Emerson 749 

Curtis 674 

T. Gray 784 



End of the Play, The 

Epitaph on Shakespeare 

Fable 

Fisher's Cottage, The 

Flowers without Fruit 

Footsteps of Angels 

Forging of the Anchor 

Fountam, The 

Garden of Lcve, The 

Good-Bye 

Good Great Man, The 

Grave of a Poetess 

Great are the Myths 

Greenwood Shrift, The 

Guy 

Hallowed Ground 

Happy Life, The 

Harmosan 

Hebe 

Hence, all you Vain Delights 

Hermione 

Hermit, The 

He who Died at Azan 

Honest Poverty 

Human Frailty 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 

Hymn of the Churchyard 

I am a Friar of Orders Gray 

If that were True 

Influence of Music 

In Pace 

Is it Come ? 

King Robert of Sicily 

Last Leaf, The 

Life 

Life 

Life 

Life and Death 

Light of Stars, The 

Lines on a Skeleton 

Lines Written in Richmond 

Churchyard 

Lords of Thule, The 

Losses 

Lost Church, The 

Lotus-Eaters, The 

Lye, The 

Macaulay , To 

Man 



Thackeray 735 

Milton 678 

Emerson 726 

Heine 641 

Newman 728 

Longfellow 773 

Ferguson 645 

Wordsworth 716 

Blake 7.52 

Emerson 717 

S. T. Coleridge 742 

T.Miller '. . 655 

W. Whitman 634 

E. and C. Southey 766 

Emerson 718 

Campbell 755 

Wotton 756 

E. C. Trench 637 

Lowell 674 

Beaumont and Fletcher 726 

Cornwall 676 

Beattie 763 

E. Arnold 783 

Burns 744 

Cowper 741 

Slielley 709 

Bethune 777 

O'Keefe 729 

F. Brown 745 

Shakespeare 669 

Eopes 730 

F. Brown 745 

Longfellow 769 

Holmes 732 

Barbauld 782 

Cornioall 769 

King 772 

Anonymous 766 

Longfellow 760 

Anonymous 776 

Knowles 778 

Anonymous 637 

F.Brown 740 

Tlhland 749 

Tennyson 631 

Ealeigh 703 

Landor 694 

Herbert 757 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



Man's Mortality 

Means to Attain Happy Life 

Meditations of a Hindoo Prince. 

Memory 

Minstrel, The 

Mortality 

Mother Margery 

Music 

Mutability 

My Days among the Dead 

My Mind to me a Kingdom is. . . 

Mystic Trumpeter, The 

Night 

No More 

Nothing New under the Sun 

Ode — Bards of Passion 

Ode — Intimations of Immortality 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 

Ode on Solitude 

Ode to an Indian Gold Coin 

Ode to Beauty 

Ode to Duty 

Oft in the Stilly Night 

Oh, may I join the Choir Invisible 
Oh the Pleasant Days of Old. . . . 

On a Lady Singing ... 

On the Receipt of my Mother's 

Picture 

One Gray Hair 

Over the River 

Passions, The 

Penseroso, II 

Petition to Time, A 

Poet's Thought, A 

Problem, The 

Psalm of Life, A 

Reply, The 

Resolution and Independence. . . 

Seed-Time and Harvest 

Shakespeare 

She Walks in Beauty 

She was a Phantom of Delight. . 

Shepherd's Hunting, The 

Ships at Sea 

Sir Marmaduke 

Sit down, Sad Soul 

Slave Singing at Midnight, The. . 

Sleep 

Sleep, The 

Smoking Spiritualized 

Soldier's Dream, The 

Solitary Reaper, The 

Solitude .^ 

Song — Down lay in a Nook 

Song — O Lady. Leave 

Song — Oh say not that my Heart 
Song — Rarely, rarely comest 

Thou 

Song — Still to be Neat 

Song — Sweet are the Thoughts . 
Song — Time is a Feathered 

Thing 

Song — What Pleasures have 

Great Princes 

Song of the Devas to Prince Sid- 

dartha 

Song of the Forge 



PAGE 

Wastell 772 

Surrey 698 

Lyall 780 

Landor 733 

Goethe 694 

Knox 776 

Burleigh 677 

Strode 669 

Shelley 738 

Southey 768 

Byrd 705 

W. Whitman 669 

Habincjton 761 

dough 738 

M. A Cook 731 

Keats 694 

Wordswm-th 758 

Keats 697 

Pope 733 

Leyden 640 

Emerson 708 

Wordsworth 739 

Moore 761 

Eliot '..... 780 

F. Brown 743 

Parsons 673 

Cowper 6.53 

Landor 731 

Mrs. Wakefield 781 

Collins 671 

Mdton 700 

Cornwall 736 

Cormoall 695 

Emerson 752 

Longfelloio 768 

Norris 702 

Wordsworth 695 

Wh.iftier 757 

Sterling 679 

Byron 676 

Wordswort'i 676 

Wither 679 

Coffin 047 

Colman 728 

Cornwall 769 

Longfellow 764 

Dowland 765 

Mrs. Browning 7'64 

Anonymous 720 

Campbell 649 

Wordsworth 676 

Cowley 7;33 

H. Taylor 726 

Hood 675 

Wolfe 739 

Shelley 710 

Jonson 074 

Greene 701 

Anonymous 737 

Byrd 702 

E. Arnold 767 

Anomjmous. .'. 644 



Sonnet — Of Mortal Gloiy 

Sonnet — Sad is our Youth 

Sonnet — The Nightingale is 
Mute 

Sonnet — 'Tis much Immortal 
Beauty 

Sonnet — Who Best can Paint . . 

Sonnets 

Sonnets 

Soul's Defiance, The 

Soul and Body 

Spinning 

Stanzas — My Life is like the 
Summer Rose 

Stanzas — Thought is Deeper. . . 

Steamboat, The ■. 

Strife, The 

Sunken City, The 

Sunrise comes To-Morrow 

Sweet is the Pleasure 

Sweet Pastoral, A 

Tables Turned, The 

Temperance ; or the Cheap Phy- 
sician 

Thanatopsis 

The Sturdy Rock, for all his 
Strength 

The Sunrise never Failed us yet. 

The Winter being Over 

The World is too Much with us. 

There are Gains for all our Losses 

There be Those 

Those Evening Bells 

Thou wert Lovely on thy Bier. . . 

Tiber Mouth, At. . : 

Time's Cure 

Tithonus 

To Constantia, Singing 

To my Sister 

To Perilla 

To the Lady Margaret 

Traveller, The 

Two Oceans, The 

Uhland 

Ulysses 

Vanitas Vanitatum 

Vanity of Human Wishes 

Verses, supposed to be Written 
by Alexander Selkirk 

Victorious Men of Earth 

Village Blacksmith, The 

Virtue 

Vision, The 

Waiting by the Gate 

Where Lies the Land 

White Island, The 

Who is Sylvia ? 

Why thus Longing ? 

Will, The 

Wish. A 

Without and Within 

Woman's Voice 

Wood-Notes 

World, The 

Would you be Young again ?.. . . 

Written at an Inn at Henley. . . . 

Youth and Calm 



PAGE 

Drummond 774 

De Vere 737 

Thurlow 693 

Thurlow 675 

Thurlow 095 

Drummond 707 

Milton 742 

L. Stoddard 737 

Swinburne 639 

Mrs. Jackson 741 

H. H. Wilde 738 

Crunch 715 

Holmes 642 

Tennyson 764 

Muller 718 

Anonymous 651 

Dwight 715 

Breton 707 

Wordsworth 715 

Crashaw 719 

Bryant 779 

Anonymous 762 

Thaxter 773 

Ann Collins 706 

Wordsworth 629 

P. H. Stoddard 737 

Barton. 749 

Moore 668 

Walker 774 

Podd 750 

Anonymous 736 

Tennyson 630 

Shelley 672 

Whitiier 677 

Herrick 732 

Daniel 704 

Goldsmith 654 

Sterling 641 

Butler 692 

Tennyson C31 

Thackeray 729 

Johnson 721 

Cowper 641 

Shirley 650 

Longfellow 643 

Herbert 762 

Burns 686 

Bryant 734 

Clough 648 

Herrick 743 

Shakespeare 675 

Mrs. Sewall 740 

Donne 775 

31. Arnold 774 

Lowell 725 

E.Arnold 673 

Emerson 711 

Very 748 

Lady Nairne 783 

Shenstone 733 

M. Arnold 048 



POEMS OF KELIGION, 



A Little Wiiile Bonar 

All Well Bonar 

Call, The Herbert 

Charity ./. Montgomery. 

Chorus Milman 

Christmas Tennyson 



831 
837 
804 
823 
847 
812 



Christmas Hymn, A Domett 

Come unto Me Mrs. Barbauld. 

Creator and Creatures Waits 

Darkness is Thinning St. Gregory — 

Dead Christ, The Mrs. Howe 

Death Wesley 



812 
807 
844 
789 
811 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



Delight in God only 

Desiriug to Love 

Divine Ejaculation 

Divine Love 

Dying Cliristian to his Soul, The 

Each Sorrow'f ul Mourner 

Easter 

Easter Hymn 

Elder Scripture, The 

EmiCTants in Bermudas, The 

Epiphany 

E\'ening 

Example of Christ, The 

Exhortation to Prayer 

Feast, The 

Field of the World, The 

Flower, The 

For a Widower or Widow 

For Believers 

For New- Year's Day 

Friend of All 

Future Peace and Glory of the 

Church 

Gethsemane 

God 

God is Love 

God, the Everlasting Light 

Heaven 

Heavenly Canaan, The 

Humility 

Hymn — Brother, thou art Gone. 
HjTnn — Drop, drop, slow Tears. 
Hymn — ^ From my Lips in their 

Defilement 

Hymn — How are Thy Servants 

Blest 

Hymn — In Darker Days 

Hymn of the Hebrew Maid 

Hymn — When all Thy Mercies . 
Hymn — When Gathering Clouds 
Hymn — When Rising from the 

Bed 

Hymn — When the Angels 

I Journey through a Desert 

In a Clear, Starry Night 

Jesas, Lover of my Soul 

Jesus shall Reif^i 

Joy and Peace m Believing 

Laborer's Noonday Hymn, The . 

Land beyond the Sea, The 

Land o' the Leal, The 

Light Shining out of Darkness. . 

Litany 

Litany to the Holy Spirit 

Lord, the Good Shepherd 

Mary 

Martyrs' HjTnn, The 

Messiah 

My God, I love Thee 



PAGE 

F. Quarles 850 

Wesley 823 

J. Quarles 849 

Tersteegen 824 

Fope 825 

Prudentivs 830 

Herbert 800 

Blackburn 801 

Keble 792 

Marvell 814 

Heber 797 

Anonymous 793 

Watts 807 

Mercer 821 

Vaughan 805 

J. Montgomery 819 

Herbert 806 

Wither 829 

Wesley 824 

Doddridge 792 

Wesley 809 

Cowper 835 

J. Montgomery 800 

Derzhavin 852 

Anonymous 847 

Doddridge 832 

J. Taylor 836 

Watts 832 

J. Montgomery 817 

Milman 827 

P. Fletcher 812 

Damascenus 802 

Addison 843 

T. Parlcer 820 

Sir W.Scott 814 

Addison 842 

Ch-ant 810 

Addison ...'. 828 

Breton 821 

Anonymous 803 

WitJier 794 

Wesley 808 

Watts 800 

Cowper 822 

Wm'dsworth 815 

Faber 826 

Nairne 827 

Cowper 844 

Ch-ant 809 

Herrick 825 

J. Montgomery 838 

Tennyson 822 

Luther 819 

Pope 797 

St. Fran. Xavier 802 



My Psalm 

My Spirit Longeth for Thee 

Nearer, my God, to Thee 

New Jerusalem, The 

Ode — The Spacious Firmament. 

Odor, The 

Oh. Fear not Thou to Die 

Oh yet we Trust 

On a Prayer-Book 

On Another's Sorrow 

On the Morning of Christ's Na- 
tivity 

Our Father's Home 

Passion Sunday 

Peace 

Philosopher's Devotion, The 

Praise to God 

Prayer, Living and Dying 

Priest, The 

Psalm Xin 

Psalm XVin 

Psalm XIX 

Psalm XXm 

Psalm XXin 

Psalm XL VI 

Psalm XLVT 

Psalm LXV 

Psalm C 

Psalm CXVII 

Reign of Christ on Earth, The . . 

Resignation 

Rest is not Here 

Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep. 

Rules and Lessons 

Search after God 

Sonpet — In the Desert 

Sonnet — The Prayers I make 

Sonnets 

Spirit-Land, The 

Stranger and his Friend, The 

St. Peter's Day 

They are all Gone 

Thou art Gone to the Grave 

Thou, God, Seest Me 

Thou, God, Unsearchable 

Time Past, Time Passing, Time 
to Come 

To Keep a True Lent 

True Use of Music, The 

Trust in Providence 

Twelfth Day, or the Epiphany . . 

Universal Prayer, The 

Veni, Creator 

Walking with God 

Watchman's Report, The 

Weeping Mary 

What is Prayer ? 

Wilderness Transformed, The. . . 

Wrestling Jacob 



Whittier . . . . 

Byron 

Adams 

Anonymous. 

Addison 

Herbert 

Anonymous . 
Tennyson . . . 

Crashaw 

Blake 



PAGE 

.. 815 
.. 810 
.. 845 



Milton 

Trench 

Fortunatus 

Vaughan 

jl/ore 

Mrs. Barbavld. 

Toplady 

Breton 



Sternkold 

Watts 

Davidson 

Merrick 

Watts 

Luther 

Watts 

Tate and Brady . 

Watts 

J. Montgomery . . . 

Chatterton 

Lady Nairne 

M7'S. Willard 

Vaughan 

Heywood 

Anonymous 

Michel Angelo 

F. Quarles 

Very 

J. Montgomery. . . 

Keble 

Vaughan 

Heber 

J. Montgomery. . . 



J. Montgomery. 

Herrick 

Wesley 

Williams 

Wither 

Pope 

St. Ambrose 

Cowper 

Bowring... 

Newton 

,/. Montgomery. 
Doddridge 



805 
825 
821 
817 
846 

794 
831 
800 
836 
791 
837 
807 
816 



840 
840 
840 
841 
841 
842 
842 
842 
799 
847 
826 
808 
789 
844 
811 
838 
806 
792 
804 
813 



850 
851 

851 
816 
818 
820 



846 

808 
801 
820 
836 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

Adam, Jean. 

Born in Greenock, Scotland, abont 1710; died in the almshonse in 
Glasgow, April 3, 1765. 

There 's nae Luck about the House 265 

Adams, Sarali Flower (born Flower). 

Born in London in 1805 ; died in 1849. 

Nearer, my God, to Thee 845 

Addison, Joseph. 

Born in Wiltshire, England, May 6, 1672 ; died in London, June 17, 
1719. 

Ode — The spacious firmament 793 

Hymn — When rising from the bed 828 

Hymn — When all Thy mercies 843 

Hymn — How are Thy servants blest 842 

Ahenside, Mark. 

Bom in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, Nov. 9, 1721 ; died June 23, 1770. 

On a Sermon against Glory 419 

Aldrivb, James. 

Born in Orange County, N. Y., July 10, 1810 ; died in 1866. 

A Death-Bed 541 

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey. 

Bom in Portsmouth, N. H., in 1836. 

Nocturne 284 

Fredericksbm'g 394 

Allingham, William. 

Born in Ballyshannon, Ireland, in 1828 ; lives in London, 

Robin Redbreast 80 

Lovely Mary Donnelly 270 

The Fairies ;. 592 

Allston, 'Washington. 

Bora in South Carolina, Nov. 5, 1779 ; died in Cambridge, Mass., 
July 9, 1843. 

Boyhood 141 

Ambrose, St. (Latw.) 

Bom in Treves, a. d. 340 ; died in Milan, April 3, 397. 

Veni Creator. {Vryden's paraphrase.). 838 

Anacreon. (Greek.) 

Bom in Teos, Greece ; died there, 476 b. c. 

Spring. (Moore's translation.) 6 

The Grasshopper. ( Cowleifs translation.) 53 

On the Grasshopper. {Cowper's translation.) 54 

Drinking. ( Coioley^s translation.) 64 

The Cheat of Cupid. (HerricTc's translation.) 286 

2 



Anderson, Alexander. 

Lives in England. 

Cuddle Doon 



Angelo, Michel. (Italian.) 

Bom in Tuscany, March 6, 1474; died in Rome, Feb. 17, 1563. 

Sonnet. (/. E. Taylor^s translation.) 

Sonnet. ( W. Wordsworth^s translation.) 

Sonnet. (./. E. Taylor''s translation.) 

Sonnet. (S. Wordswwth^s translation.) 

Anster, John. 

Bom in Ireland in 1 798 ; was Professor of Civil Law in Trinity Col- 
lege, Dublin ; died June 9, 1SG7. 

The Fairy Child 



Antipater of Sidon. (Greek.) 

Lived in Greece about 100 b. c. 

On Anacreon. ( T. Moore's translation.) . 
Arnold, Edw^in. 

Bom in London in 1832. 

Woman's Voice 

The Song of the Devas 

He who Died at Azan 



Arnold, Matthew. 

Bom in Lalcham, England, Dec. 24, 1822. 

Philomela 

The Forsaken Merman 

Excuse 

Indifference 

The Last Word 

Sohrab and Kustum 

Youth and Calm 

Bacchanalia ; or. The New Age. 
A Wish 



115 



245 

245 
262 



120 



678 



673 

767 
783 



40 
.320 
321 
322 
419 



Aytoun, William £)dmondstoane. 

Bom in Fifeshire, Scotland, in 1813 ; died Aug. 4, 1865. 

Massacre of the Macpherson 



648 
746 

774 



456 



Baillie, Joanna. 

Bom in Lanarkshire, Scotland, Sept. 11, 1762 ; died at Hampstead, 
near London, Feb. 23, 1851. 

The Black Cock 



Barbauld, Anna tetitia (bom Aikin). 

Born in Leicestershire, England, June 20, 1743 ; died near London, 
March 9, 1825. 



Life 

Death of the Virtuous. 

Come unto Me 

Praise to God 



782 
782 
807 
837 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PASE 

Barnard, I/ady Anne (bom Lindsat). 

Born in Balcarres, Scotland, Dec. 8, 1760 ; died May 8, 1826. 

Auld Robin Gray 316 

Barnfield, Richard. 

Bom in Staffordshire, England, in 1674 ; died atout 1606. 

Address to the Nightingale 38 

Barry, Michael Joseph. 

Born in Ireland about 1815. Contributed this poem to the Dublin 
"Nation "in 1843. 

The Place where Man should Die 419 

Barton, Bernard. 

Born near London, Jan. 31, 1784 ; died Feb. 19, 1849. 

Not ours the Vows 339 

There be Those 749 

Bayly, Thomas Haynes. 

Bom in Bath, England, Oct. 13, 1797 ; died April 22, 1839. 

She Wore a Wreath of Roses 535 

Oh ! Where do Fairies Hide their Heads ? 584 

Beattie, James. 

Born in Kincardineshire, Scotland, Oct. 20, 1735; died Aug. 18, 
1803. 

The Hermit T63 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

Were connected as writers in London from about 1605 to 1615. 
Fkancis Beaumont was bom in Leicestershire in 15S6 ; died March 
9,1616. John Fletcher was born in Northamptonshire in 1576; 
died in London in 1625. 

Spring 7 

To Pan 51 

Folding the Flocks 96 

Beauty Clear and Fair 251 

Speak, Love 251 

Hence, all you Vain Delights 726 

Beddoes, Thomas Lovell. 

Born near Bristol, England, in 1802 ; died in Germany in 1849. 

Dir^e 552 

Bridal Song and Dirge 552 

Bennett, Henry. 

Born in Corli, Ireland, about 1785. 

St. Patrick was a Gentleman 471 

Bennett, "William Cox. 

Bom in Greenwich, England, in 1820 ; lives in London. 

Invocation to Kain in Summer 62 

To a Cricket 102 

Baby May 113 

Baby's Shoes 150 

Berkeley, George. 

Bom in Kilcrin, Ireland, March 12, 1684; died Bishop of Cloyne, 
Jan. 13, 1763. 

On the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learning in 
America 388 

Bethune, John. 

Born in Fifeshire, Scotland, in 1812; died Sept. 1, 1839. 

Hymn of the Church-yard 777 

Blackburn, Thomas. 

Author of "Hymns and Poems for the Sick and Suffering." 

An Easter Hymn , 801 

Blake, TTilliam. 

Bom in London, Nov. 20, 1757 ; died Aug. 12, 1827. 

The Tiger 57 

Introduction — Piping down the valleys 113 

The Little Vagabond 133 

The Little Black Boy 147 

The Garden of Love 752 

On Another's Sorrow 846 



PAGE 

Blanchard, Liaman. 

Born in Great Yarmouth, England, May 16, 1803 ; died Feb. 6, 
1846. 

The Mother's Hope 122 

Blunt, 'Wilfred Scawen. 

Bom in England about 1840. 

The Oasis of Sidi Khaled 58 

To One who would make a Confession 247 

To One Excu,?ing his Poverty 247 

Boker, George Henry. 

Born in Philadelphia in 1824. 

The Black Regiment 396 

Dirge for a Soldier 558 

Bonar, Horatius. 

Born in Scotland about 1810. Minister of the Free Church in 
Kelso. 

A Little WhUe 831 

All Well .• 837 

Bourne, Vincent. 

An usher in Westminster School ; born about 1700 ; died Dec. 2, 

1747. 

The Cricket ( Cowper''s translation) 102 

Bowles, William I^isle. 

Bom in Northamptonshire, England, Sept. 24, 1762; died April 7, 

1850. 

Come to these Scenes of Peace 44 

The Greenwood 44 

On the Funeral of Charles 1 556 

Bowring, Sir John. 

Born in Exeter, England, Oct. 27, 1792; died Nov. 22, 1872. 

The Watchman's Report 808 

Brainard, John Gardner Calkins. 

Born in New London, Conn., Oct. 21, 1796 ; died Sept. 26, 1828. 

Epithalamium 339 

Breton, Nicholas. 

Bom in England in 1556 ; died in 1624. 

Phillida and Corydon 247 

A Sweet Pastoral 707 

The Priest 816 

Hymn — When the angels 821 

Bronte, Emily. 

Born in Yorkshire, England, in 1818 ; died there, Dec. 19, 1848. 

Remembrance 310 

Brooks, Maria (born Gowen). 

Born in Medford, Mass., about 1795 ; died in Cuba, Nov. 11, 1845. 

Song 282 

Brown, Frances. 

Born in Stranolar, Ireland, Jan. 16, 1816. 

Oh ! the Pleasant Days of Old. ..'. 743 

Is it Come ? 745 

If that were True 745 

Broivne, William. 

Born in Devonshire, England, in 1590 ; died in 1645. 

Shall I Tell ? 250 

Welcome, Welcome 261 

Browning, Flizabeth Barrett (born Bakbett). 

Born in Hope End, Herefordshire, in 1809; died in Florence, June 
29, 1861. 

The Child and the Watcher 117 

Lady Geraldine's Courtship 226 

Sonnets from the Portuguese 246 

Bertha in the Lane 317 

Mother and Poet 563 

Cowper's Grave 685 

The Sleep 764 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PASE 

Browning, Kobert. 

Born near London in 1812. 

The Pied Piper of Hamelin 128 

Tlie Glove 210 

Misconceptions 294 

One Way of Love 294 

In a Year 301 

Evelyn Hope 325 

Give a Rouse 369 

How they brought the Good News from Ghent to 

Aix 385 

Incident of the French Camp 400 

Herve Riel 409 

The Flight of the Duchess 441 

The Lost Leader 555 

Bryant, William CuUen. 

Born in Cummington, Mass., Novemljer 3, 1794 j died in New York, 
June 15, 1878. 

To a Waterfowl 42 

To the Fringed Gentian 82 

Death of the Flowers 84 

The Hunter of the Prairies 85 

The Evening Wind 96 

The Burial of Love 332 

Song of Marion's Men 389 

Oh ! Mother of a Mighty Race 391 

The Battle-Field 393 

The Hunter's Vision 528 

The Crowded Street 717 

Waiting by the Gate 734 

Thanatopsis 779 

Bachanan, Robert. 

Born in Scotland, Aug. 18, 1841. 

The Old Politician 415 

The Green Gnome 594 

Bunyan, John. 

Bom in Elstow, England, in 1628; died in London, Aog. 31, 1688. 

The Pilgrim 420 

Burbidge, Thomas. 

Born in England ; published " Poeme, Longer and Shorter," Lon- 
don, 183S. 

Mother's Love 124 

If I Desire with Pleasant Songs 287 

Burleigh, George S. 

Born in Plainfleld, Conn., March 26, 1821. 

Mother Margery 677 

Burns, Kobert. 

Born near Ayr, Scotland, Jan. 25, 1759; died July 21, 1796. 

To a Mountain Daisy 28 

My Heart 's in the Highlands 85 

Auld Lang Syne 178 

Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes 264 

Here 's a Health to Ane 265 

Farewell to Nancy 265 

Red, Red Rose 266 

Lass of Ballochmyle 266 

Address to a Lady 267 

Bonnie Leslie 368 

Highland Mary 326 

To Mary in Heaven 827 

My Wife 's a Winsome Wee Thing 342 

The Blissful Day 344 

John Anderson ,344 

Bannock-Burn 369 

Kenmure 's on and Awa' 377 

Here 's a Health to them that 's Awa' 377 

Tam o' Shanter 4.57 

M'Pherson's Farewell 497 

Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson 545 

The Vision 686 

Honest Poverty 744 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 753 



PAGE 

Butler, William Allen. 

Born in Albany, N. Y., in 1825. 

Uhland 692 

All 's Well 762 

Byrd, William. 

An English musical composer; lived about 1600. 

Song 702 

My Minde to Me a Kingdom is 705 

Byrom, John. 

Born in Kersall, England, in 1691 ; died Sept. 28, 1763. 

My Spirit Longeth for thee 811 

Byron, Lord. 

Born in London, Jan. 22, 1788 ; died April 19, 1824. 

Stanzas to Augusta 170 

To Thomas Moore 175 

Maid of Athens, ere we Part 262 

The Girl of Cadiz 263 

Stanzas for Music 264 

Stanzas — Oh, talk not to me 292 

The Dream 296 

When We Two Parted 300 

Destruction of Sennacherib 353 

Song of the Greek Poet 411 

The Prisoner of Chillon 512 

Oh, Snatched away in Beauty's Bloom 548 

She Walks in Beauty 676 

CaUistratus. (Greek.) 

Lived in Greece about 500 B. c. 

Harmodius and Aristogeiton. {Lord Demnav^'s 
translation^ 354 

Campbell, Thomas. 

Born in Glasgow, July 27, 1777; died in Boulogne, June 15, 1844. 

To the Evening Star 99 

Song 383 

Lochiel's Warning 378 

Hohenlinden 400 

Ye Mariners of England 403 

Battle of the Baltic 403 

Lord XJllin's Daughter 518 

The Soldier's Dream 649 

Hallowed Ground 755 

Canning, George. 

Born in London, April 11, 1770; died in Chiswict, Aug. 8, 1827. 

Friend of Humanity and the Knif e-Grinder 461 

Song of one Eleven Years in Prison 462 

Carevr, Thomas. 

Born in Devonshire, England, in 1589 ; died in 1639. 

The Airs of Spring 3 

. Disdain Returned 254 

Song 256 

Cary, Alice. 

Born in Ohio, April 26, 1820; died in New York, Feb. 12, 1871. 

Among the Beautiful Pictures 151 

ChalkhUl, John. 

A friend of Izaalt Walton ; lived in the seventeenth century. 

The Angler 13 

Channing, William Ellery. 

Born in Boston, June 10, 1818. 

To my Companions 181 

Chatterton, Thomas. 

Born in Bristol, England, Nov. 20, 1752; killed himself, Aug. 25, 
1770. 

Minstrel's Song .324 

Resignation 847 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

Chaucei', Geoffrey. 

Born in London in 1328 ; died Oct. 26, 1400. 

The Cuckoo and the NigMingale 17 

Clare, Jolin. 

Born in Northamptonshire, England, July 13, 1793 ; died in 1864. 

July 43 

Claudius, Matthias. (Gbkman.) 

Born near Lubeck, Germany, in 1743; died in 1816. 

Night Song. i^G. T. Brooks's translation^) 100 

Clougli, Arthur Hugh. 

Born in Liverpool, Jan. 1, 1819: died in Florence, Italy, Nov. 13, 

Qua Cursum Ventus 169 

Where Lies the Land 648 

Despondency Rebuked 658 

No More 738 

Coffin, Kohert Barry. 

Lives in New York. 

Ships at Sea 647 

Coleridge, Hartley (son of S. T. Coleridge). 
Bom near Bristol, England, Sept. 19, 1796; died Jan. 10, 1849. 

Song — The Lark 12 

November 94 

Song — She is not fair 250 

Colei'idge, Samuel Taylor. 

Born in Devonsliire, England, Oct. 21, 1772; died July 2S, 1834. 

The Nightingale 40 

Hymn before Sunrise 110 

Love 234 

Cologne 460 

The Devil's Thoughts 460 

Song — Hear, sweet spirit 595 

Rime of the Ancient Mariner 615 

Kubla Khan 614 

Dejection : an Ode 726 

The Good Great Man 743 

Collins, Ann. 

Lived in England al)OUt 1650. 

The Winter being Over 706 

Collins, William. 

Born in Chichester, England, Dec. 26, 1720 ; died in 1766. 

Ode to Evening 97 

Ode — How sleep the brave 384 

Dirge in Cymbeline 551 

The Passions 671 

Colman, George, The Toungbb. 

Bom in London, Oct. 21, 1762 ; died Oct. 26, 1836. 

Sir Marraaduke 728 

Congreve, "William. 

Bom in Bardsey, England, in February, 1670; died in London, Jan. 
19, 1729. 

The White Eose '. 248 

Cook, Marc Eugene. 

Bom in 1854 ; died in Utica, N. Y., Oct. 4, 1882. 

Nothing New under the Sun 731 

Cooke, Philip Pendleton. 

Bom in Martinsburg, Va., Oct. 26, 1816; died Jan. 20, 1860. 

Florence Vane 328 

Cooke, Rose Terry (bom Teert). 
Born in Hartford, Conn., where ehe now lives. 

Trailing Arbutus 31 

Eeve du Midi 50 

Then 319 

The Fishing-Song 564 



PAGE 

Corbett, Richard. 

Born in Surrey, England, in 1582 ; died in 1635. 

The Fairies' Farewell 593 

Cornwall, Barry (Bbtan Waller Pkocteb). 

Born in Wiltshire, England, in 1787 ; died in London, Oct. 5, 1874. 

The Blood Horse 61 

The Sea 66 

The Stormy Petrel 67 

The Hunter's Song 86 

A Song for the Seasons 108 

Song — Love me if I live 372 

The Poet's Song to his Wife 343 

Softly Woo away her Breath 528 

The Mother's Last Song 537 

Peace ! What do Tears Avail ? 541 

A Bridal Diige 553 

Hermione .' 676 

A Poet's Thought 695 

A Petition to Time 736 

Sit down. Sad Soul 769 

Life 769 

Cotton, Charles. 

Bom in Derbyshire, England, in 1630 ; died in 1687. 

The Retirement 49 

Cotton, Nathaniel. 

Bora In St. Albans, England, in 1721 ; died in 1788. 

The Fireside 341 

Cowley, Abraham. 

Bom in London in 1618 ; died July 28, 1667. 

The Garden 46 

The Chronicle 283 

On Solitude 733 

Cowper, William. 

Born in Hertfordshire, England, Nov. 16, 1731 ; died April 25, 1800. 

Boadicea 355 

Diverting History of John Gilpin 453 

On the Loss of the Royal George 519 

Verses, supposed to be written by Alex. Selkirk. . 641 

On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture 653 

Human Frailty 741 

Joy and Peace in Believing ^ 823 

The Future Peace and Glory of the Church 835 

Light Shining out of Darkness 844 

Walking with God 846 

Craik, Dinah Maria (bom' Mitlock). 

Born in Stoke-upon-Trent, England, in 1826. 

North Wind 106 

Philip, my King 117 

Too Late 329 

Cranch, Christopher Pearse. 

Born in Alexandria, D. C, March 8, 1813; lives in Cambridge, 
JVIass. 

Stanzas — Thought is deeper 715 

Crashaw, Richard. 

Born in Cambridgeshire, England, about 1600 ; died in 1650. 

Song — To thy lover 2.55 

Temperance, or the Cheap Physician 719 

On a Prayer-Book 817 

Crawford, Mrs. Julia. 

Bom in Ireland ; died about 1855. 

We Parted in Silence 300 

Croflfut, "William Andrews. 

Born in Danbury, Conn., in 1836 ; lives in New York. 

Clam-Soup 462 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

Croly, George. 

Born in Dublin in 1780 ; died in 1860. 

Leonidas 355 

Pericles and Aspasia 356 

Diige 784 

Cunningham, Allan. 

Born in Blackwood, Scotlimd, Dec. 17, 1784 ; died Dec. 29, 1842. 

A Wet Sheet and a Plowing Sea 67 

Thou hast Vowed by thy Faith, my Jeanie 267 

The Poet's Bridal-Day Song 343 

Hame. Hame, Hame 380 

My Ain Countree 381 

Gane were but the Winter Canld 548 

Curtis, George "William. 

Born in Providence, E. I., in 1824 ; lives on Staten Island. 

Egyptian Serenade 674 

Damascenus, St. Joannes. (Greek.) 

Born in Damascus ; died about 756. 

Hymn. {E. B. Browning's translation.) 802 

Dana, Kicharcl Henry. 

Bom in Cambridge, Mass., Nov. 15, 1787 ; died in Boston, Feb. 2, 
1879. 

The Little Beach-Bird 70 

Daniel, Samuel. 

Born in Somersetshire, England, in 1562 ; died in October, 1619. 

Love is a Sickness 348 

To the Lady Margaret 704 

Darley, George. 

Born in Dublin in 1785; died in London in 1849. 

The Gambols of Children 132 

Love-Song 278 

Sylvia 279 

Davis, Thomas Osborne. 

Bom in Jlallow, Ireland, in 1814; died in Dublin, Sept. 16, 1845. 

The Welcome 272 

Pontenoy 382 

Davison, Francis. 

Born in Norfolk, England, about 1575 ; died about 1618. 

Psalm XIII 839 

Psalm XXni 840 

De Vere, Aubrey. 

Born in the county Limerick, Ireland, Dec. 16, 1814. 

Early Friendship 163 

Song — Sing the old song 279 

Sonnet — Sad is our youth 737 

Derzhavin, Gabriel Komanowitch. (Etjssian.) 

Born in Kasan, Russia, July 3, 1743; died July 6, 1816. 

God. (X Bowring's translation.) 852 

Dibdin, Chai-les. 

Born in Southampton, England, in 1745 ; died in 1814. 

Sir Sidney Smith 436 

Tom Bowling 534 

The Anchorsmiths 645 

Dickens, Charles. 

Born in Portsmouth, England, Feb. 7, 1812 ; died June 9, 1870. 

The Ivy Green 93 

Dimond, TVilliam. 

A theatrical mauager ; bom in Bath, England ; died in Paris in 
October, 1337. 

The Mariner's Dream 5C-:! 



PAGE 

Dobell, Sydney. 

Born in Peckham Rye, England, April 5, 1824 ; died Aug. 24, 1874. 

How 's my Boy ? 533 

Tommy 's Dead 533 

Dobson, Austin. 

Born in England in 1840 ; lives in London. 

The Wanderer 287 

Doddridge, Philip. 

Born in London, June 26, 1702 ; died in October, 1751. 

For New- Year's Day 793 

God the Everlasting Light of the Saints 833 

The Wilderness Transformed 836 

How Gracious and how Wise 808 

Domett, Alfred. 

Bom in England about 1815 ; lives in London. 

A Christmas Hymn 813 

Donne, John. 

Bom in London in 1573 ; died there, March 31, 1631, 

A Lecture upon the Shadow 247 

The Will 775 

Douglas of Fingland. 

Lived in Scotland in the seventeenth century, 

Annie Lamie 267 

Dowland, John. 

An English musical composer ; lived about 1600. 

Sleep 765 

Downing, Mary. 

Bjrn in Cork, Ireland, about 1830. 

Were I but his own Wife 373 

Doyle, Sir Francis Hastings. 

Bom in England in 1810. 

The Pi-ivate of the Buffs 415 

Drake, Joseph Bodman. 

Bom in New York, Aug. 7, 1795 ; died Sept. 21, 1820, 

The American Flag 391 

The Culprit Fay 585 

Drayton, Michael. 

Born in Warwickshire, England, in 1563; died in 1631. 

I give thee Eternity 345 

Let us Kiss and Part 2.56 

Ballad of Agincourt 363 

Drummond, "William. 

Bom in Hawthornden, Scotland, Nov. 13, 1585 ; died Dec. 4, 1649. 

Song — Phoebus, arise 7 

To the Redbreast 107 

Sonnet — I know that all 345 

Sonnets 707 

Sonnet — Of mortal glory 774 

Dryden, John. 

Born in Northamptonshire, England, Aug. 9, 1631 ; died May 1, 1700. 
Alexander's Feast 666 

Duflferin, Il,ady. 

Formerly Mrs. Blackwood ; granddaughter of R. B. Sheridan; sister 
of Mrs. Norton ; bom in Ireland in 1807 ; died June 13, 1867. 

Lament of the Irish Emigrant 535 

Dunbar, 'William. 

Born in Scotland about 1465 ; died about 1530. 

All Earthly Joy returns in Pain 629 

Dwight, John Sullivan. 

Bom in Boston, Mass., May 13, 1813. 

Sweet is the Pleasure 715 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

Dyer, John. 

Born in Wales in 1700; died in 1768. 

Grongar Hill 94 

iEastman, Charles Gamage. 

Born in Fryeburg, Me., June 1, 1816; died in Burlington, Vt., in 
1861. 

A Snow-Storm 527 

Dirge 552 

Eliot, George (Mrs. Ckoss, born Makian Evans). 

Born in GrifF, Warwickshire, England, Nov. 22, 1820 ; died in Lon- 
don, Dec. 22, 1S80. 

Oh, may I join the Choir Invisible 7'80 

Elliott, Ehenezer. 

Born near Sheffield, England, March 17, 1781 ; died Dec. 1, 1849. 

The Bramble Flower 33 

A Poet's Epitaph 560 

Emerson, Kalph Waldo. 

Born in Boston, Mas9., May 25, 1803; died in Concord, April 27, 
1882. 

The Rhodora 31 

To the Humble-Bee 55 

The Snow-storm 107 

Tlirenody ; 153 

Hymn .388 

Ode to Beauty 708 

Wood-Notes 711 

Brahma 714 

Good-bye 717 

Guy 718 

Bacchus 719 

Fable 726 

Each and All 749 

The Problem 752 

Eaher, Frederick William. 

Born ill England, June 23, 1814 ; died Sept. 26, 1863. 

The Land beyond the Sea 826 

Eenner, Cornelius George. 

Bom in Providence, R. I., Dec. 30, 1822; died in Cincinnati, Jan, 
4,1847. 

Gulf-Weed 69 

Eergixson, Sir Samuel. 

Born in Belfast, Ireland, March 10, 1810 ; is a barrister in Dublin. 

The Forging of the Anchor 645 

Fields, James Thomas. 

Born in Portsmouth, N. H., Dec. 31, 1817 ; died in Boston, April 24, 
1881. 

Ballad of the Tempest 146 

Dirge for a Young Girl 553 

Finch, Francis Miles. 

Bom in Ithaca, N. Y., June 9, 1827 ; lives there. 

The Blue and the Gray 398 

Fletcher, Giles. 

Born in Kent, England, about 1660 ; died in 1610. 

Panglory's Wooing Song 353 

Fletcher, Fhineas. 

Bom in London in 1684 ; died about 1690. 

Hymn — Drop, drop, slow tears .'. 812 

Fortunatus, Venantius. (Latin.) 

A saint of the Latin Church ; born near Venice in 530 ; died about 
600. 

Passion Sunday. (Anonymous translation.) 800 

Freiligrath, Ferdinand. (German.) 

Bom in Detmold, Germany, June 17, 1810 ; died March 17, 1876. 

The Lion's Kide. (Anonymous translation.) 57 



PAGE 

Gay, John. 

Bora in Devonshire, England, in 1688 ; died Dec. 11, 1732. 

Sweet William's Farewell to Black-eyed Susan 215 

Gilman, Caroline (born Howard). 

Born in Boston, Mass., in 1794. 

Annie in the Grave-yard 146 

Glazier, William Belcher. 

Lives in Gardiner, Me. • 

Cape Cottage at Sunset 169 

Glen, William. 

Born in Glasgow, Scotland, Nov. 14, 1789 ; died there in December, 
1826. 

Wae 's Me for Prince Charlie 380 

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von. (Germ.^n.) 

Bom in Frankfort-on-the-Main, Aug. 29, 1749 ; died in Weimar in 
1832. 

The Minstrel. (J. C. Mangan''s translation.) 694 

Goldsmith, Oliver. 

Born in the county Longford, Ireland, Nov. 29, 1728 ; died April 4, 

1774. 

The Hermit 212 

Eleey on the Death of a Mad Dog 432 

Elegy on the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize. . 455 

The Traveller 654 

The Deserted Village 659 

Grant, Sir Eobert. 

Bom in Scotland in 1786 ; died July 9, 1838. 

Litany 809 

Hymn — When gathering clouds 810 

Gray, David. 

Bom near Glasgow, Scotland, Jan. 29, 1838 ; died Dec. 3, 1S61. 

Sonnet — Die down, O dismal day ! 108 

Gray, David. 

Lives in Buffalo, N. Y. 

The Golden Wedding 344 

Gray, Thomas. 

Born in London, Dec. 20, 1716 ; died July 30, 1771. 

On a Distant Prospect of Eton College 137 

The Bard 363 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard 784 

Greene, Kohert. 

Born in Norwich, England, about 1560 ; died Sept. 5, 1592. 

Philomela's Ode 256 

Song — Sweet are the thoughts 701 

Gregory the Great, St. (Latin.) 

Bom in Rome about 540 ; died 604. 

Darkness is Thinning. (.7. 31. Neale^s transla- 
tion.) 789 

Griffith, George Bancroft. 

Lives in Lempster, New Hampshire. 

Our Fallen Heroes 397 

Habington, AVilliam. 

Born in Worcestershire, England, in 1605; died in 1645. 

Castara 253 

Night 761 

Halleck, Fitz-Greene. 

Born in Guilford, Conn., July 8, 1790; died Nov. 17, 1867. 

Marco Bozzaris 412 

On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake 559 

Hamilton, William. 

Bom at Bnngour, Scotland, in 1704 ; died in 1754. 

The Braes of Yarrow 489 



INDUX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

Harte, Bret. 

Born in Albany, N. Y., Aug. 25, 1839. 

Chiquita 60 

Plain Language from TmtMul James 482 

Harte, Walter. 

Born in 1100 ; died in Wales in 1774. 

Soliloquy 54 

Hawker, Robert Stephen. 

Born in Plymouth, England, in 1803 ; died in Cornwall in 1876. 

Song of the Cornish Men 383 

Hazewell, Edward WentwortU. 

Bora in Massachusetts in 1S53 ; lives in Revere, Mass. 

Veteran and Recruit 384 

Heber, Beginald. 

Bora in CheBhire, England, April 21, 1783; died in India, April 3, 
1826. 

If thou wert by my Side 340 

Epiphany 797 

Thou art Gone to the Grave 828 

Heine, Heinricli. (German.) 

Bom in Dusseldorf, Germany, Jan. 1, 1800 ; died in Paris, Feb. 17, 
1856. 

The Lorelei. ( Crunches translation.) 595 

The Water Fay. (Leland's translation.) 596 

The Fisher's Cottage. {Leland's translation.) — 641 

Heuians, Felicia Dorothea (bom Browne). 

Born in Liverpool, England, Sept. 25, 1794; died May 16, 1835. 

Willow Song 53 

The Wandering Wind 64 

The Adopted Child 143 

Landing of the POgrim Fathers 387 

Casablanca 408 

Dirge 553 

Herbert, George. 

Born in Wales, April 3, 1693 ; died in Febrnary, 1632. 

Man 757 

Virtue 763 

Easter 801 

The Call 804 

The Odor 805 

The Flower 806 

Herrick, Robert. 

Born in London in 1591 ; date of death unknown. 

To Violets 29 

To Primroses 29 

To Blossoms 30 

To Daffodils 30 

To Meadows 81 

Mrs. Eliz. Wheeler 252 

Night Piece 254 

Gather ye Rose-buds .3.33 

The Hag 461 

Dirge of Jephthah'g Daughter 550 

Delight in Disorder '. 674 

To Perilla 732 

The White Island 74.3 

To Keep a True Lent 816 

Litany to the Holy Spirit 825 

Heywood, Thomas. 

Lived in England, under Queen Elizabeth and Charles L 

Song — Pack clouds away 13 

Search after God 844 

Hill, Thomas. 

Born in New Brunswick, N. J., Jan. 7, 1818. 

The Bobolink 15 



PAGE 

Hoffman, Charles Fenno. 

Born ill Kcw York in 1806. 

Sparkling and Bright 173 

Monterey 392 

Hogg, James. 

Bora in Ettrick, Scotland, in 1770 ; died Nov. 21, 1835. 

The Lark J^ 

The Moon was A-Waning 523 

Kilmeny 579 

Holmes, Oliver "Wendell. 

Born in Cambridge, Mass., Aug. 29, 1809. 

The Chambered Nautilus 72 

A Good Time Coming 181 

The Voiceless 562 

The Steamboat 642 

The Last Leaf 733 

Hood, Thomas. 

Born in London in 1798; died May 3, 1846. 

Autumn 93 

To a Child Embracing his Mother 119 

To my Daughter .' 126 

I Remember, I Remember 144 

Fair lues 268 

Ruth 275 

Serenade 277 

Ballad — It was not in the winter 278 

Ballad — Sigh on, sad heart '. 294 

Faithless Nelly Gray 465 

Faithless Sally Brown 466 

The Lady at Sea 467 

The Dream of Eugene Aram 524 

The Bridge of Sighs 536 

The Song of the Shirt 538 

The Death-Bed 541 

The Water Lady 596 

Song — A lake and a fairy boat 596 

Song — O lady, leave 675 

Howe, Julia "Ward (bom Ward). 

Born in New York in 1&19. 

The Dead Chi-ist 810 

Howitt, Mary (bom Botham). 

Born in Uttoseter, England, about 1804. 

Little Streams 25 

Broom Flower 33 

Cornfields 83 

The Fairies of the Caldon Low 583 

Hnnt, Iieigh. 

Born in Middlesex, England, Oct. 19, 1784; died Aug. 28, 1859. 

Choiiis of Flowers 35 

Grasshopper and Cricket 54 

To J. H.— Four Years old 118 

To a Child during Sickness 121 

JafEar 168 

The Nun 284 

Jenny Kissed Me 293 

Abou Ben Adhem 643 

An Angel in the House 769 

Hunter, Anne (bom Home). 

Bom in Hull, England, in 1742 ; died Jan. 7, 1621. 

Indian Death-Song 387 

Hutchinson, Fllen Mackay. 

A native of Rochester, N. Y. Lives in New York city. 

Harvest 79 

A Cry from the Shore 648 

Hyslop, James. 

Born in Scotland, July, 1798; died Dec, 4, 1827. 

The Cameronian's Dream 374 



INDEX OF AVTHORS. 



PAGE 

IngeloTT, Jean. 

Bom ia Boston, England, in 1830. Lives in London. 

Divided 298 

Ingranoi, John Eells. 

Born in Ireland about 1820. Is a Fellow of Trinity College, Dublin. 

The Memory of the Dead 413 

Jactson, Helen Hunt (born Fiskb). 
Bom in Amherst, Mass., in 1831. 

Spinning 741 

Jolinson, Samuel. 

Bom in Lichfield, England, Sept. 18, 1709 : died in London, Dec. 18, 
1784. 

The Vanity of Human Wishes 721 

Jones, Ernest. 

A leading Chartist ; lived in England. 

Moonrise 99 

Jones, Sir William. 

Bom in London, Sept. 28, 1746 ; died April 27, 1794. 

Ode — What constitutes a state 418 

Jonson, Sen. 

Born in London, June 11, 1674, died Aug. 16, 1G37. 

Triumph of Charis 248 

Discourse with Cupid 249 

Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H 554 

Song — StUI to be neat 674 

Jadson, Emily (bom CmjEBtrcK). 

Born in Eaton, N. Y., Aug. 22, 1817 , died in Hamilton, N. Y., June 
1, 1864. 

Watching .342 

Keats, Jolm. 

Born in London in 1796 ; died Feb. 24, 1821. 

Ode to a Nightmgale 39 

Hymn to Pan 50 

On tlie Grasshopper and Cricket 54 

To Autumn 86 

Fancy 103 

The Eve of St. Agnes 217 

Fairy Song 578 

La Belle Dame sans Merci 579 

On first Looking into Chapman's Homer 692 

Ode — Bards of passion 694 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 697 

Keble, Jobn. 

Born in Gloucestershire, England, April 26, 1792 : died March 29, 
1366. 

April 5 

The Elder Scripture 792 

St. Peter's Day 813 

Kemble, Frances Ann. 

Born in London in 1811. 

Absence .' 281 

Kenyon, Jolin. 

Died in London in 1857, 

Champagne Kos6 173 

Key, Francis Scott. 

Born in Frederick Co., Md., Aug. 1, 1779 : died in Baltimore, Jan. 
11, 1843. 

The Star-spangled Banner 390 

King, Henry. 

Bishop of Chichester, England; born in 1591 ; died in 1669. 

The Exeqny 547 

Life 772 



PAGE 

Kingsley, Charles. 

Born in Devonshire, England. June 12, 1819 ; died in London, Jan. 
23, 1875. 

The Knight's Leap 386 

Song — O Mary, go and call the cattle home 498 

The Fishermen 512 

The Day of the Lord 747 

Kinney, Coates. 

Born in Yates Co., N. Y., in 1825. Lives in Xenia, O. 

Eain on the Koof 62 

Knox, ■William. 

Born in Firth, Scotland, Aug. 17, 1789: died in Edinburgh, Nov. 12, 
1826. 

Mortality 776 

Kno'wles, Herbert. 

Born in Canterbury, England, in 1798 ; died in 1817. 

Lines Written in Richmond Churchyard, Yorkshire 778 
Iiamb, Charles. 

Born in London, Feb. 18, 1775; died Dec. 27, 1834. 

The Christening 114 

The Gipsy's Malison 118 

The Old Familiar Faces 170 

Hypochondriacus 463 

Farewell to Tobacco 464 

Hester 541 

liamb, Mary. 

Born in London in 1765 ; died May 20, 1847. 

Choosing a Name 114 

liandon, liSetitia Elizabeth. (Mrs. Maclean.) 

Born at Chelsea, England, in 1802; died in Africa, Oct. 16, 1638. 

The Shepherd Boy 126 

Little Red Riding Hood 127 

Night at Sea 178 

The Awakening of Endymion 279 

tandor, Walter Savage. 

Born iu Warwickshire, England, in 1775 ; died in Florence, Italy, 
Sept. 17, 1864. 

The Brier 33 

Children 120 

The Maid's Lament 293 

Iphigenia and Agamemnon 509 

To Macaulay 694 

The One Gray Hair 731 

Memory 733 

An Old Poet to Sleep 765 

liCland, Charles Godfrey. 

Born in Philadelphia, Aug. 15, 1824. 

Hans Breitmann's Party 483 

Ballad 483 

liemon, Mark. 

Born in London, Nov. 30, 1809; died May 23, 1870. 

Old Time and 1 483 

teonidas, of Alexandria. (Gkeek.) 

Born in the year 69 ; died in 129. 

On the Picture of an Infant. (Eogers's translation.) 120 

liCyden, John. 

Born in Denholm, Scotland, Sept. 8, 1776; died in Batavia, island 
of Java, Aug. 21, 1811. 

Sabbath Morning 9 

Ode to an Indian Gold Coin 640 

liOcker, Frederick. 

Born in Greenwich, England, in 1824. 

The Cuckoo 16 

A Nice Correspondent 293 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

liOckhart, John Gibson. 

Bom in Glasgow in 1792 ; died at Abbotsford, Nov. 25, 1854, 

The Broadswords of Scotland 381 

IiOgan, John. 

Born in Scotland in 1748; died in December, 1788. 

To the Cuckoo 16 

Song — Yarrow stream 491 

liOngfeUow, Hemiy Wadsworth. 

Born in Portland, Me., Feb. 27, 1807; died in Cambridge, Mass., 
March M, 1S82. 

The Birds of Killingworth 21 

Flowers 36 

Twilight 68 

Seaweed 69 

Woods in Winter 106 

Afternoon in February 107 

The Children-s Hour 144 

The Open Window 149 

The Fire of Drift- Wood 168 

Excelsior 420 

The Wreck of the Hesperus 520 

The Warden of the Cinque forts 557 

The Village Blacksmith 643 

The Arsenal at Springfield 650 

The Light of Stars 760 

The Slave Singing at Midnight 764 

A Psalm of Lrfe 768 

King Robert of SicDy 769 

Footsteps of Angels 773 

The Burial of the Poet 774 

I<ovelace, Kichard. 

Born in Kent, England, in 1618 ; died in 1658, 

The Grasshopper 53 

To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars 254 

To Althea, from Prison 255 

To Lucasta 255 

Orpheus to the Beasts 309 

Liover, Samuel. 

Born in Dublin in 1797; died July 6, 1S68. 

The Angel's Whisper 116 

Eory O' More 288 

Molly Carew 289 

Widow Machree 290 

liO-svell, James Bussell. 

Born at Cambridge, Mass., Feb. 22, 1819. Is U. S. Minister at Lon- 
don. 

To the Dandelion .33 

The Birch-Tree 51 

She Came and Went 1.50 

My Love 276 

The Conrtin' 290 

TVTiat Mr. Robinson Thinks 484 

Rhcecus 612 

Hebe 674 

Without and Within 725 

IiO^vell, Maria "White ^wife of James Russell 
Lowell). 

Born at Walertown, Mass., Joly 8, 1821 ; died Oct. 27, 1S53. 

The Morning-Glory 150 

Iiowell, Robert Traill Spence (brother of J. R. 
Lowell). 

Born in Boston, Oct. 8, 1816. 

The Relief of Lucknow 414 

I-uther, Martin. (German.) 

Born in Eisleben, Saxony, Nov. 10, 1483; died Feb. 13, 1546. 

The Martyr's Hymn. (TF. ./. Fox's translation.) . . 819 
Psalm XLVI. ( T. Carlyle's translation.) 841 

Lyall, Sir Alfred Comyns. 

Lives in England. 

Meditations of a Hindoo Prince 780 



PAGE 

I/yttelton, I-ord. 

Bom in Hagley, England, Jan. 17, 1709 ; died there, Ang. 22, 1773. 

Tell Me, my Heart 249 

Lytton, Edward Robert Bulwer, 

Born m Herts, England, Nov. 8, 1831. 

Changes 323 

Aus Italiens 337 

Midges 477 

Macaulay, tord. 

Born in Rothley Temple, England, Oct. 26, 1800; died in London, 
Dec. 28, 1S59. 

Horatius 347 

Ivry 367 

Naseby 369 

McCarthy, Denis Florence. 

Bom in Cork, Ireland, about 1810 ; died in Dublin, April 7, 1882. 

Summer Longings 8 

MacDonald, George. 

Born in Huntly, Scotland, in 1824. 

The Earl o' Quarterdeck 202 

Song 326 

Macbay, Charles. 

Bom in Perth, Scotland, in 1812. 

The Good Time Coming 180 

What Might be Done 182 

McMaster, Guy Humphrey. 

Born in Bath, Steuben County, N. Y., in 1829. 

Carmen Bellicosum 389 

Maginn, ■William. 

Bom in Cork, Ireland, about 1793 ; died Aug. 20, 1842. 

St. Patrick, of Ireland, my Dear 472 

The Ii-ishman 473 

Mallett, David. 

Bom in Scotland about 1700 ; died April 21, 1765. 

A Funeral Hymn 546 

MarloTve, Cliristopher. 

Born iu Canterbury, England, Feb. 26, 1564 ; died June 16, 1593. 

The Milk-Maid's Song 258 

Martin, Ada I^omse. 

Sleep 103 

Marvell, Andrew. 

Bom in Kingston-upon-HulI, England, Nov. 15, 1620; died Aug. 
16,1678. 

A Drop of Dew 6 

The Garden 45 

The Lover to the Glow-worms 252 

Horatian Ode 371 

The NjTiiph Complaining 534 

The Emigrants in Bermudas 814 

Mercer, Margaret. 

Bom in Annapolis, Md., in 1791 ; died at Belmont, Va., Sept. 19, 
1S47. 

Exhortation to Prayer 821 

Meredith, George. 

Born in Hampshire, England, about 1828. 

Love in the Valley 240 

Merrick, James. 

Born in England in 1720 ; died in 1769. 

Psalm SXin.. 840 

Messinger, Robert Hinckley. 

Born in Boston in 1811 ; died in 1S74. 

A Winter Wish 171 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

MiUer, Thomas. 

Born in Gainsborough, England, Aug. 31, 1808 ; died Oct. 25, 18T4. 

To George M 131 

Miller, William. 

Born in Glasgow, Scotland, in 1810 ; died in 1872. 

Willie Winkle 115 

Milliken, Kichard Alfred. 

Born in the county Cork, Ireland, in 17£>7; died in 1815. 

The Groves of Blarney 472 

Mills, J. Harrison. 

Lives in the United States. 

Over the Range 561 

Milman, Henry Hart. 

Born in London, Feb. 10, 1791 ; died there, Sept. 24, 1868. 

The Hebrew Wedding 333 

Hymn — Brother, thou art gone 837 

Chorus — King of kings 847 

Milnes, Kicliard Monckton (Lord Houghton). 

Born in Yorkshire, England, in 1809. 

The Brook-side .' 277 

Milton, John. ' 

Born in London, Dec. 9, 1608 ; died Nov. s', 1674. 

Song : On May morning 6 

To the Nightingale 38 

Sonnets 372 

Lycidas 542 

Coinus, a Mask 599 

Epitaph on Shakespeare 678 

L'AIlegro 698 

n Penseroso 700 

Sonnets 742 

On the Nativity 794 

Mitchell, TValter. 

Born in Nantucket, Mass., about 1825. 

Tacking Ship off Shore 68 

Moir, David Macbeth. 

Born in Musselburgh, Scotland, Jan. 5, 1798 ; died July 6, 1351. 

Casa Wappy 156 

Montgomery, Alexander. 

Born in Ayrshire, Scotland, before 1550; died about 1611, 

Night is Nigh Gone 9 

Montgomery, James. 

Born in Irvine, Scotland, Nov, 4, 1771 ; died April 30, 1854, 

Evening in the Alps 98 

The Eeign of Christ on Earth 799 

Gethsemane 800 

The Stranger and his Friend 804 

Humility : 817 

The Field of the World 819 

Wliat is Prayer ? 820 

Charity 83:3 

The Lord the Good Shepherd , 838 

Thou, God, Seest Me 8.50 

Time Past, Time Passing, Time to Come 851 

Montrose, James Graham, Marquis *of . 

Born in Montrose, Scotland, in 1612; hanged in Edinburgh, May 
21, 1651. 

My Dear and Only Love 259 

Moore, Clement Clarke. 

Born in New York, July 15, 1779; died in Newport, R. I., July 10, 
1863. 

A Visit from St. Nicholas 131 



PAGE 

Moore, Thomas. 

Born in Dublin, May 28, 1779 ; died Feb. 26, 1852. 

The Last Rose of Summer 86 

Wreathe the Bowl 172 

Fill the Bumper Pair 173 

And doth not a Meeting like This 174 

Come, Send round the Wine 175 

Farewell ! but whenever you Welcome the Hour,. 175 

The Journey Onwards 179 

Go where Glory waits Thee ! 269 

Fly to the Desert 269 

Fly not Yet 285 

She is far from the Land .326 

Song 383 

The Harp that once tlirough Tara's Halls ,383 

Peace to the Slumberers 384 

Oh ! Breathe not his Name 549 

Those Evening Bells 668 

Canadian Boat-Song. 673 

Arranmore 744 

Oft in the Stilly Night 761 

More, Henry. 

Born in Grantham, England, in 1614; died in 1687. 

The Philosopher's Devotion 791 

Morris, 'Williani. 

Born near London, England, in 1834. 

Atalanta's Race 187 

Motherwell, William. 

Born in Glasgow, Scotland, Oct. 13, 1797 ; died Nov. 1, 1835. 

They Come, the Merry Summer Months 9 

The Water ! The Water 26 

The Midnight Wind 105 

The Bloom^hath Fled thy Cheek, Mary 311 

Jeanie Morrison 311 

My Held is like to Rend, Willie : .312 

The Cavalier's gong 366 

Covenanter's Battle-Chant 373 

When I beneath the cold, red Earth am Sleeping.. 560 

Moultrie, John. 

Born in England in 1800 ; died Dec. 26, 1874. 

The Thi-ee Sons 151 

Muellei-, W^ilhelm. (German.) 

Born in Dessau, Germany, Oct. 7, 1794; died Oct. 1, 1827. 

The Sunken City. {Mangan's translation.) 718 

Munby, Arthur Joseph. 

Born in England about 1835. 

Doris : A Pastoral 236 

Nairne, I^ady (bom Carolina Oliphant). 

Corn in Perthshire, Scotland, in 1766 ; died there in 1845. 

The Laird o' Cockpen 214 

Would You be Young again ? 783 

Rest is not here 826 

The Land o' the Leal 827 

Newman, Jolin Henry. 

Born in London, Feb. 21, 1801. 

Flowers without Fruit , 728 

Newton, John. 

Born in London in 1725 ; died there in 1807. 

Weeping Mary 801 

Noel, Thomas. 

Author of "Rhymes and Roundelays," London, 1841. 

The Pauper's Drive 540 

Norris, John. 

Born in England in 1667 ; died iji 1711. 

The Reply 703 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

Norton, Caroline (born Sheridan). 

Born at Hampton Court, England, in 1808 ; died June 15, 1877. 

The Jlother's Heart 123 

We have been Friends together 171 

Allan Percy , 323 

Love not •J*'* 

The King of Denmark's Ride 51( 

O'Hara, Theodore. 

Born in Kentucky about 1820 ; died in 1867. 

The Bivouac of the Dead 399 

O'Keefe, John. 

Born in Dublin, June 24, 1747 ; died Feb. 4, 1833. 

I am a Friar of Orders Gray 729 

Oldys, "William. 

Born iu England in 1636 ; died in 1761. 

The Fly 55 

Orleans, Charles, Duke of. (French.) 

Born in Paris, May 26, 1391 1 died Jan. 4, 1465. 

The Fairest Thing in Mortal Eyes. (,H. Cartfs 
translation.) 331 

O'Shanghnessy, Arthur "W. E. 

Born in Ireland in 1846 ; died in London in February, 1881. 

Song 395 

Palmer, John Williamson. 

Born in Baltimore, Md., about 1828. 

For Charlie's Sake 158 

Parker, Martyn. 

Lived in England iu the seventeenth century. 

Ye Gentlemen of England 407 

Parker, Theodore. 

Born in Lexington, Moss., Aug. 24, 1810 ; died May 10, 'I860. 

Hymn — In darker days 820 

Parsons, Thomas William. 

Born iu Boston, Mass., Aug. 18, 1819. 

A Song for September 80 

Saint Peray 177 

The Groomsman to his Mistress 282 

On a Bust of Dante 418 

On a Lady Singing 673 

Peacock, Thomas I/ove. 

Born in England in 1785 ; died in 1866. 

The War-Song of Dinas Vawr 457 

Percival, James Gates. 

Born in Berlin, Conn., Sept. 16, 1796 ; died May 2, 1856. 

May 7 

The Coral Grove 71 

To Seneca Lake 74 

It is Great for our Country to Die 354 

Percy, Thomas. 

Born in Sbronshire. England, in 1728 ; died. Bishop of Dromore, 
Ireland, in 181ir 

The Friar of Orders Gray 208 

Perry, Nora. 

Lives in Providence, R. I. 

Loss and Gain 1.58 

Riding Dowm 281 

Philostratus. (Greek.) 

Born in Lemnos, Greece, about 182. 

To Celia. (B. Jonson's translaiiwi.) 249 



PAGE 

Pierpont, John. 

Horn iu Litchfield, Conn., April 6, 1785; died Aug. 26, 1866. 

My Child 1.57 

The Pilgrim Fathers 388 

Pinkney, Ed^vard Coate. 

Born in London, October, 1802; died in Baltimore, April 11, 1S28. 

Serenade 277 

A Health 278 

Poe, Edgar Allan. 

Born in Boston, Feb. 19, 1809 ; died in Baltimore, Oct. 7, 1849. 

Annabel Lee 325 

The Raven 623 

The Bells 665 

Pope, Alexander. 

Born in London, May 22, 1688 ; died May 30, 1744. 

The Rape of the Lock , 4.33 

Ode on Solitude 732 

Messiah 797 

The Dying Christian to his Soul 825 

The Universal Prayer 848 

Praed, Winthrop Mackworth. 

Born in London in 1S02; died July, 15, 1839. 

The Vicar 480 

Twenty-eight and Twenty-nine 481 

Charade 693 

Pringle, Thomas. 

Born iu BI.ickl:iw, Scotland, Jan. 5, 1789 ; died Dec. 5, 1S34. 

The Lion and the Giraffe 58 

Afar in the Desert 59 

Procter, Adelaide Anne. 

Born iu London, Oct. 30, 1826; died there, Feb. 2, 1864. 

A Doubting Heart 103 

Prout, Father (Francis Mahont). 

Born in Ireland about 1805 ; died in Paris, May 19, 1866. 

The Bells of Shandon 664 

Prudentius, Aurelius. (Latin.) 

Bom in Spain. 343. 

Each Sorro\rful Mourner. (J". M. NeaWs trans- 
lation.) 830 

Quarles, Francis. 

Born in Stewards, near Rumford, England, in 1592; died Sept. 8, 
1644. 

Sonnets 806 

Delight in God only 850 

Quarles, John (son of Francis Quarles). 

Born in Essex, England, iu 1624 ; died in 1665. 

Divine Ejaculation 849 

Kaleigh, Sir W^alter. 

Bom in Budley, England, in 1552 ; beheaded Oct. 29, 1618. 

The Milk-Maid's Mother's Answer 250 

The Lye 703 

Bamsay, Allan. 

Born in Crawford, Scotland, iu 1685; died in 1758. 

Lochaber no more 376 

Randolph, Thomas. 

Bom in Badby, England, in 1605 ; died March 17, 1634. 

Song of Fairies. {Leigli SunVs translation..) 579 

Read, Thomas Suchanan. 

Born in Chester County, Pa., March 12, 1822 ; died iu New York, 
May 11, 1872. 

Drifting 73 

Autumn's Sighing 93 

The Windy Night 104 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

Roberts, Sarah. 

Born in Portsmouth, N. H. Lives in one of the Western States. 

The Voice of the Grass 42 

Rogers, Samuel. 

Born near London, July 30, 1763 ; died in London, Dec. 18, 1855. 

A Wish 340 

Rodd, Rennell. 

Lives in England. 

A Song of Autumn 293 

At Tiber Mouth 750 

In Chartres Catliedral 777 

Ronsard, Pierre. (French.) 

Born in Vendoinois, France, in 1524 ; died in 1585. 

Return of Spring. (Anonymous translation.) 3 

Ropes, A. K. 

Lives in England. 

In Pace 780 

Roscoe, WUliain. 

Born in Mount Pleasant, near Liverpool, 1753 j died Jane 30, 1831. 

On the Death of Burns 689 

Roscoe, William Stanley. 

Born in England in 1782; died in October, 1643. 

Dirge 551 

Rossetti, Christina Gahriella. 

Born in London in December, 1830. 

Dream-land 562 

Salis, Johann Gaudenz von. (German.) 

Born in Orisons, Switzerland, Dec. 86, 1762; died Jan. 29, 1834 

Song of the Silent Land. {Longfellovfs transla- 
tion.) 539 

Sappho. (Greek.) 

Born in Lesbos in the sixth century before Christ. 

Blest as the Immortal Gods. (A. Phillips''s trans- 
lation.) 261 

Scott, tady John (born Alicla Spottisttoode). 

Born near Edinburgh about 1815. 

When Thou art Near Me 258 

Scott, Sir TValter. 

Bom in Edinburgh, Aug. 15, 1771 ; died Sept. 21, 1S32. 

Jock of Hazeldean 2-38 

Lochinvar 238 

The Outlaw 239 

Song — The heath this night 264 

Song — A weary lot is thine 303 

Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee 375 

Border Ballad 379 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 379 

Coronach 548 

Proud Maisie is in the Wood 555 

Hymn of the Hebrew Maid "814 

Sewall, Harriet Winslow (bom Winslow). 

Born in Portland, Me., June 30, 1819. Lives in Boston. 

Wliy thus Longing ? 740 

Shakespeare, William. 

Born in Stratford-on-Avon, England, about April 23,1564; died 
April 23, 1616. 

]\rorning 10 

Song — The Greenwood Tree 44 

Blow, blow, thou Winter Wind 105 

Sonnets 163 

Sonnets 242 

Come away, Death 2.57 

Sons — How should I your true love know 257 

Crabbed Age and Youth 284 



PAGE 

Shakespeare, William. — (Continued.) 

Dirge of Imogen 550 

Son^ of the Fairy 578 

Ariel's Songs 595 

Influence ot Music 669 

Who is Sylvia ? 675 

Shakespeare and John Fletcher. 

Take, oh take those Lips away 252 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe. 

Born in Field Place, England, Aug. 4, 1792; drowned in the Bay 
of Speazia, Italy, July 8, 1822. 

To the Skylark 10 

Arethusa 24 

The Question 27 

The Cloud 63 

Ode to the West Wind 65 

Autumn — A Dirge 87 

The Sensitive Plant 87 

To Night 99 

Dirge for the Year 108 

Hymn to the Spirit of Nature 109 

Lines to an Indian Air 262 

Love's Philosophy 263 

To 263 

Lament 561 

Lament 562 

To Constantia Singing 672 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 709 

Song — Rarely, rarely comest thou 710 

MutabDity 738 

Shenstone, William. 

Bom in Hales-Owen, England, in 1714 ; died Feb. 11, 1763. 

The Schoolmistress ; 133 

Written at an Inn at Henley 733 

Shepherd, Nathaijiel Graham. 

Lives in New York. 

A Summer Reminiscence 274 

Roll-Call 394 

Shirley, James. 

Born in London about 1594; died Oct. 29, 1666. 

Victorious Men of Earth 650 

Death's Pinal Conquest 763 

Sidney, Sir Philip. 

Born in Penshurst, England, Nov. 29, 1554 ; died Oct. 7, 1586. 

Sonnets '■ 244 

Simmons, BartholomeTv. 

Author of "Legends, Lyrics, and other Poems," Edinburgh, 1S43. 

Stanzas to the Memory of Thomas Hood 558 

Simonldes. (Greek.) 

Bom in Julis, Island of Cos, B. c. 554 ; died B. c. 469. 

Danae. ( W. Peter's translation.) 141 

Smith, Charlotte. 

Born in Sussex, England, in 1749 ; died in 1806. 

The Nightingale's Departure 42 

Smith, Horace. 

Born in London, Dec. SI, 1779 ; died July 12, 1839. 

Hymn to the Flowers ^J, 

oil the Death of George m -^ ■■••.■ ^^' 

Address to the Mummy at Belzom's Exhibition. . . 639 

Smith, Sydney. 

Born in Essex, England, June 3, 1771 ; died in London, Feb. 22, 
1845. 

Receipt for Salad '^^^ 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

Smits, Dirk. (Dutch.) 

Born in Rotterdam, June 20, ]702; died April 25, 1755. 

On the Death of an Infant. {E. S. Van Dyh's 
translation.) 149 

Somerville, ■William. 

Born in Edstone, England, in 1692 ; died July 19, 1742. 

The White Rose 348 

SoTithey, Caroline Bowles. 

Bom in Bucliland, England, Dec. 6, 1787 ; died July 20, 1854. 

Autumn Flowers . . : 83 

The Pauper's Death-Bed 539 

The Last Journey 539 

Soutliey, Kobert. 

Born in Bristol, England, Aug. 12, 1774; died March 21, 1843. 

The Holly-Tree 105 

The Inchcape Rock 520 

The Battle of Blenheim 649 

My Days among the Dead 768 

Sonthey, Kobert and Caroline. 

The Greenwood Shrift 766 

Spencer, "William Kobert. 

Born in England in 1770 ; died in 1834. 

To Lady Anne Hamilton 170 

Beth Gglert 517 

Spenser, !Bdmund. 

Bom in London in 1553 ; died Jan. 16, 1599. 

Onr Love shall Live 242 

Sonnet 3.33 

JEpithalamion 334 

Stanley, Tbomas. 

Born in Cumberlow Green, England, in 1625 ; died April 12, 1678. 

The Tomb ". 257 

Sterling, JoUn. 

Bom in Karnes Castle, Scotland, July 20, 1806; died Sept. 18, 1844. 

The Spice-Tree 56 

The Husbandman 82 

To a Child 122 

The Rose and the Gauntlet 313 

Alfred the Harper 356 

Daedalus 508 

The Two Oceans 641 

Shakespeare 679 

Sternbold, Thomas. 

Born in Hampsliire, England ; died in August, 1549. 

Psalm XVin. Part First 839 

StiU, John. 

Born in Grantham, England, in 1543 ; died in 1607. 

Good Ale 428 

Stoddard, I/avinla. 

Born in Guilford, Conn., June 29, 1787 ; died in 1820. 

The Soul's Defiance 737 

Stoddard, Kichard Henry. 

Born in Hingham, Mass., July, 1825. 

The Sea 517 

There are Gains for all our Losses 737 

Stoddart, Thomas Tod. 

Born in Edinburgh, Feb. 14, 1810. Lives in Kelso. 

The Angler's Trysting-Tree 13 

Story, William W. 

Born in Salem, Mass., Feb. 19, 1819. 

The Violet 34 



PAGE 

Strode, William. 

Bom in England in 1600 ; died in 1644. 

Music 669 

Strong, r. C. 

Lives in the United States. 

West Point 295 

Suctling, Sir John. 

Born in Whitton, England, in 1609 ; died May 7, 1641. 

Song — Why so pale 285 

Snrrey, Henry Howard, Earl of. 

Born in England about 1516; died Jan. 21, 1547. 

Description of Spring 3 

The Means to Attain Happy Life 698 

Snrville, Clotilde de. (French.) 

Com in Vallon-snr-Ardk-he, France, about 1405 ; died in 1495. 

The Child Asleep. (Longfellow's translation.) 118 

Swinbnrne, Algernon Charles. 

Born in London, England, April 5, 1837, 

When the Hounds of Spring 4 

A Forsaken Garden 91 

A Match 251 

Soul and Body 639 

Sylvester, Joshua. 

Born in England in 1563 ; died in 1618. 

A Contented Mind 703 

TannahiU, Kobert. 

liom in Paisley, Scotland, June 3, 1774 ; died May 17, 1S10. 

The Midges Dance aboon the Burn 64 

Tate and Brady. 

Nahnm Tate, bom in Dublin in 1652 ; died Aug. 12, 1715. Brady, 
born in Bandon, Ireland, Oct. 28, 1669 ; died May 20, 1726. 

Psalm C 843 

Taylor, Bayard. 

Bom in Kennett Square, Pa., Jan. 11, 1825; died in Berlin, Ger- 
many, Dec. 19, 1S78. 

The Arab to the Palm 56 

Storm-Song 68 

The Phantom 554 

Hylas 610 

Taylor, Sir Henry. 

Bom in Durham, England, in 1800. 

In Remembrance of the Hon. Edward Ernest Vil- 

liers 544 

Song — Down lay in a nook 730 

Taylor, Jeremy. 

Born in Cambridge, England, in 1613; died Aug. 13, 1667. 

Of Heaven 836 

Tennyson, Alfred. 

Bora in Soniersby, Lincolnshire, England, Aug. 5, 1S09. 

Spring 4 

Song of the Brook 26 

Bugle-Song 96 

Evening 97 

Song — The Owl 101 

Second Song, to the same 102 

Lullabv 114 

The Widow and Child 159 

The Reconciliation 160 

From ■' In Memoriam " , 165 

The Dav-Dream 222 

The Letters 241 

Come into the Garden, Maud 273 

The Miller's Daughter 277 

Ask me no More 300 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

Tennyson, Alfi-ed.— (Continued.) 

Mariana in tlie South 302 

Loclvsley Hall 303 

Oh, that it were Possible 808 

My Love has Talked 339 

Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaklava 402 

The May Queen 529 

A Dirge 549 

Break, Break, Break 566 

The Days that are no more 566 

Morte d'Arthur 571 

The Lady of Shallott 597 

Tithonus 630 

Ulysses 631 

The Lotus-Eaters 631 

Contemplate all this Work 744 

The Strife 764 

Christmas 812 

Oh, yet we Trust 821 

Mary 822 

Tersteegen, Gerhard. (German.) 

Bom in Westphalia in 3697 ; was a ribbon-weaver. 

Divine Love. (-7. WesJei/s translation.) 824 

Thackeray, William Makepeace. 

Bom in Calcutta in ISll ; died in London, Dec 24, 1863. 

The Ballad of Bouillabaisse 176 

The Mahogany Tree 181 

At the Church Gate 275 

The White Squall 468 

The Battle of Limerick 474 

Molony's Lament 475 

Mr. Molony's Account of the Ball 476 

The Age of Wisdom 729 

Vanitas Vanitatum 729 

The End of the Play 735 

Thaxter, Celia (born Laighton). 

A native and resident of tlie Isles of Shoals, N. H. 

The Sand-Piper 71 

The Sunrise never Failed us yet 773 

Thurlow, liord (Edward Hovell-Thurlow). 

Born in England, June 10, 1781 ; died June 3, 1829. 

Song to May 8 

Sonnet — The crimson moon 100 

Sonnet — To a bird that haunted Lake Laaken 107 

Sonnet — Immortal beauty 675 

Sonnet — The nightingale is mute 693 

Sonnet — Who best can paint 695 

Toplady, Augustus Montague. 

Born in Farnbam, England, in 1740; died Aug. 11, 1778. 

A Prayer, Living and Dying 807 

Trench, Richard Chenevix. 

Bom in Dublin, Ireland, Sept. 9, 1S07. Is Arcbbishoj) of Dublin. 

Harmosan 637 

Our Father's Home 831 

Trowbridge, John ToTimsend. 

Bom in Ogden, N. Y., Sept. IS, IS27. Lives in Arlington, Mass. 

Midsummer 43 

At Sea 68 

Tyrwhitt, Kegxnald St. John. 

Lives in England. 

The Glory of Motion 61 

Uhland, Johann liUdwig. (German.) 

Born in Tubingen, Germany, April 26, 1787 j died there, Nov. 13, 
1862. 

The Passage. {Mrs. Austin's translation.) 168 

The Castle by the Sea. (Longfellow^s translation.). 563 
The Lost Cliurch. (Sarah H. Whitman's trans- 
lation.) 749 



page 
"Vandegrift, Margaret. 

Lives in Philadelphia. 

The Dead Doll 116 

Vaughan, Henry. 

Bom in Newton, England, in 1621 ; died in 1695. 

Eules and Lessons 789 

The Feast 805 

They are all Gone 830 

Peace 836 

Tery, Jones. 

Bom in Salem, Mass., Aug. 28, 1813; died May 8, 1880. 

Nature 31 

The Latter Rain 92 

The World 748 

The Spirit-Land 792 

Vincente, Gil. (Portuguese.) 

Born in Portugal about 14S2 ; died about 1537. 

She is a Maid. (Longfellow's translation.) 276 

Wakefield, Nancy A. W. (born Priest). 

Born in Hinsdale, N. H., in 1837 ; died in 1870. 

Over the River 781 

Walker, William Sidney. 

Born in England in 1795 ; died in 1846. 

Thou wert Lovely on thy Bier 774 

Waller, Edmund. 

Bom in Coleshill, England, March 3, 1606; died Oct. 21, 1687. 

The Rose 34 

W^aller, John Francis. 

A barrister of Dublin ; bom about 1810. 

The Spinning-Wheel Song 236 

An Irish Melody 271 

Walton, Izaak. 

Born in Stafford, England, Aug. 9, 1593; died Dec. 15, 1683. 

The Angler's Wish 14 

Warton, Thomas. 

Born in Basingstoke, England, in 1726 ; died May 21, 1790. 

Inscription in a Hermitage 48 

Wastel, Simon. 

Born in Westmoreland, England, about 1560; died about 1630. 

Man's Mortality 772 

Watts, Isaac. 

Bom in Southampton, England, July 17, 1674; died Nov. 25, 1748. 

A CracUe Song 160 

Jesus shall Reign 800 

The Example of Christ 807 

The Heavenly Canaan 832 

Psalm XIX 840 

Psalm XLVI 841 

Psalm LXV. Second Part 842 

Psalm CXVn 843 

The Creator and Creatures 844 

Waugh, ISdxvin. 

Bora in Rochdale, England, Jan. 29, 1818. 

The Dule 's i' this Bonnet o' Mine 271 

Wesley, Charles. 

Born in Lincolnshire, England, in 1708 ; died in 1788. 

Wrestling Jacob 803 

Jesus, Lover of my Soul 808 

Friend of All 809 

The True Use of Music 818 

Desiring to Love 823 

For Believers 824 

Death 828 

Thou God Unsearchable 851 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

Westwood, Thomas. 

Bom in England in 1814. 

Under my Window 145 

Little Bell 147 

■White, Joseph Blanco. 

Born in Spain about 1773; died in England, May 20, 1S40. 

To Night 101 

White, Henry Kirke. 

Born in Nottingham, March 21, 1785; died Oct. 19, 1S06. 

To the Harvest Moon 100 

Solitude 561 

Wliitman, Sarah Helen (born Power). 

Born in Providence, R. T., in 1803; died there in 1878. 

A Still Bay in Autumn 82 

Sons — I bade thee stay 29.3 

The Old Mirror 565 

Whitman, Walt. 

Born in West Hills, Long Island, May 31, 1819. 

Vigil Strange I Kept 397 

A Sight in Camp 397 

An Old-Fashioned Sea-Fight 404 

Great are the Myths 6-34 

The Mystic Trumpeter 669 

Death Carol 786 

Whittier, John Greenleaf. 

Bora in Haverhill, Mass., Dec. 17, 1807. 

Hampton Beach 72 

Maud MuUer 314 

Our State 392 

The Battle Autumn of 1862 393 

Barbara Frietchie 395 

Ichabod 554 

Barclay of Ury 635 

To my Sister 677 

Burns 691 

Seed-Time and Harvest .• 7-58 

My Psalm 815 

Wilde, Oscar. 

Born in Dublin in 1846. 

Ave Imperatris ! 400 

Wilde, Kichard Henry. 

Born in Dutilin, Sept. 24, 178;) ; died in New Orleans, Sept. 10, 1M7. 

Stanzas — My life is like 738 

WiUard, £mma (bom HartI. 

Born in Berlin, Conn., Feb. 25, 1787 ; died in Troy, N. Y., April 
15,1870. J. . P 

Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep 808 

Williams, Helen Maria. 

Born in England in 1762 ; died in Paris in 1827. 

Trust in Providence 820 

WiUis, Nathaniel Parker. 

Born in Portland, Me., Jan. 20, ISOT ; died near Newhurgh, N. Y., 
Jan. 21, 1867. 

The Belfry Pigeon .52 

Saturday Afternoon 1.32 

The Annoyer 287 

WiUmott, Kobert Aris. 

Died in Oxfordshire, England, May 28, 1863. 

A Child Praying 158 

Wither, George. 

Born in Bentworth, England, June 11, 1588 ; died May 2, 1667. 

Christmas 183 

The Shepherd's Resolution 285 

The Shepherd's Hunting 679 



PAGE 

Wither, George. — (Continued.) 

In a Clear Starry Night 794 

Twelfth Day, or the Epiphany 799 

For a Widower or Widow 829 

W^olfe, Charles. 

Born in Dublin, Dec. 14, 1791 ; died Feb. 21. 18S3. 

The Burial of Sir John Moore 556 

Song — Oh say not that my heart 739 

Wood-worth, Samuel. 

Bom in Scituate, Mass., Jan. 13, 1785 ; died Dec. 9, 1842. 

The Bucket 652 

Wordsworth, William. 

Born in Cockermouth, Cumberland, England, April 7,1770; died 
April 23, 1850. 

March 5 

Morning in London 9 

To the Cuckoo 16 

To the Small Celandine 28 

Daffodils 30 

On a Picture of Peel Castle in a Storm 70 

Yarrow Unvisited 74 

Yarrow Visited 75 

Yarrow Revisited 76 

On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye 78 

Fidelity 81 

Influence of Natural Objects 109 

To Hartley Coleridge 121 

The Pet Lamb 124 

Her Eyes arc Wild 141 

Lucy Gray 143 

We are Seven 145 

Lucy 148 

Laodamia 329 

Sonnets 417 

The World is too Much with Us 629 

The Solitary Reaper 676 

She was a Phantom of Delight 676 

Resolution and Independence 695 

The Tables Turned 715 

The Fountain 716 

Ode to Duty 739 

Ode — Intimations of Immortality 758 

The Laborer's Noonday Hymn 815 

Wotton, Sir Henry. 

Bom at Boughton Hall, England, March 30, 1508 ; died in Decem- 
ber, 1639. 

Verses in Pi-aise of Angling 14 

You Meaner Beauties 252 

The Happy Life 756 

XaTier, St. Francis. (Latin.) 

Bom in Xavier, Navarre, in 1506; died Dec. 2, 1552. 

My God, I Love Thee. {Edward GcmwdVs trans- 
lation.) 802 

Yonl, Edward. 

A writer in " Howitt's Journal," London, 1847- '48. 

Song of Spring 31 

Anonymous. 

BailifE's Daughter of Islington, The. (18^A Cen- 
tury. English.) 206 

Balder. {iUh Century. Englinh.) 638 

Be Patient. (Wth Century. English.) 748 

Bonnie George Campbell, {tlth Century, Scottish.) 496 

Bridal of Andalla, The. (Spanish.) 221 

BuU-Fisht of Gazul, The. (Spanish.) 358 

Charlie'is my Darling. (Mth Century, Scottish.).. 376 

Che\'y Chase, (15^/i Century, English.) 359 

Children in the Wood, The. (Vtth Century, Eng- 
lish.) 138 

Coming through the Rye. (;lWi Century, Scottish.) 288 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

Anonymous. — {Continued.) 

Cruel Sister, The. (loth Century, Scottish.) 493 

Deceitf Illness of Love, The. (17iA Century, Eng- 
lish.) 286 

Douglas Tragedy, The. (16<A Century, Scottish.). 491 
Dowie Dens of Yarrow. {lUh Century, Scottish.) . 488 
Dragon of Wantley, The. (Vlth Century, English.) '&7 

Edward, Edward. (18th Century, Scottish.) 494 

Essence of Opera. (French.) 463 

Evening. (IWi Century, English) 793 

Fair Helen. (18^* Century, Scottish.) 497 

Fairies' Song. (17th Century, English.) 578 

Fairy Queen, The. (17th Century, English.) 577 

Fate. (19th Century, English.) 258 

First and Last. {19th Century, English.) 303 

Gallant Grahams, The. (18th Century, Scottish.) . 377 

George Nidiver. (19^/i Century, American.) 416 

God IS Love. (19th Century, English.) 847 

God Save the King. (17fh Century, English.) 384 

Heir of Linne, The. (16th Century, English.) 423 

Heliotrope. (19th Century, American.) 315 

How Stands the Glass Around. (18i;A Century, 

English.) 174 

I Journey through a Desert. (19<A Century, Eng- 
lish.) 803 

In the Desert of the Holy Land. {Vith Century, 

American.) 811 

Jovial Beggar, The. (18^A Century, English.) 429 

King Arthur's Death. (15th Century, English.) . . 569 
King John and the Abbot of Canterbury. (Vlth 

Century, English.) 426 

Kulnasatz, my Reindeer. (Icelandic.) 261 

Lady Ann BothwelPs Lament. (17th Century, 

Scottish.) 140 

Lamentation for Celin. (Spanish.) 509 

Lament of the Border Widow. {17th Century, 

Scottish.) 497 

Life and Death. (19i;/j Century, English.) 766 

Little Boy Blue. (19th Century, English.) 126 

Lord Lovel. (Wh Century, English.) 204 

Lord Randal, (loth Century, Scottish.) 493 

Lords of Thule, The. (German.) 637 

Love Me Little, Love Me Long. (16th Century, 

English.) 250 

Love not Me. (Xith Century, English.) 258 

Maiden's Choice, The. {18th Century, English.). . 284 

Malbrouck. (French.) 430 

Memorable Dessert, A. (19th Century, English.). 288 
Merry Pranks of Robin Goodfellow, The.' (17th 

Century, English.) 576 

New Jerusalem, The. (Latin.) 832 

Oh, Fear not Thou to Die. (19CA Century, English.) 825 
Old and Young Courtier, The. {17th Century, 
English.) 431 



PAGE 

Anonymous. — (Continued.) 

Old Story, The. (19th Century, Irish.) 237 

Origin of Ireland, The. (19th Century, Irish.) 470 

Owl, The. (17i:/i Century, English.) 102 

Prince Eugene. (18^A Century, German.) 366 

Rare Willy Drowned in Yarrow. (15i/i Century, 

Scottish.) 491 

Robin Hood and AUen-a-Dale. {Ihth Century, 

English.) 204 

Saint Anthony's Sermon to the Fishes. {19th Cen- 
tury, English.) 478 

Sea-Fight, The. (19th Century, English.) 405 

Seaman's Happy Return, The. (17th Century, 

English.) 216 

Shan Van Vocht, The. (18th Century, Irish.) .... 385 

Sir Patrick Spens. (loth Century, Scottish.) 487 

Skeleton, Lines on a. (19th Century, English.). .. 776 
Smoking Spiritualized. (17th Century, English.).. 720 

Song of the Forge." (19th Century, English.) 644 

Spanish Lady's Love, The. (15wi Century, Eng- 
lish.) 209 

Sturdy Rock, The. (17th Century, English.) 762 

Summer Days. (;l9th Century, English.) 274 

Sunrise Comes To-Morrow. (19th Century, Eng- 
lish.) 6.51 

Syr Cauline. (14^/i Century, English.) 195 

Take thy Old Cloake about Thee. (lUh Century, 

English.) 429 

Thomas the Rhymer. (16<A Century, Scottish.). . . 574 
Time is a Feathered Thing. (17th Century, Eng- 
lish) 737 

Time's Cui-e. (19th Century, English.) 736 

True-hearted Ben. (19th Century, English.) 470 

Truth's Integrity. (16th Century, English.) 206 

Twa Brothers, The. (lUh Century, Scottish.) — 495 

Twa Corbies, The. (15i;/i Century, Scottish.) 496 

Very Mournful Ballad, A. (Spanish.) 519 

Vicar of Bray, The. (18th Century, English.) .... 479 
AValy, waly, but Love be Bonny. (IWi Century, 

Scottish.) 311 

Wee, Wee Man, The. (Ihth Century, Scottish.). . . 575 
'WTien Banners are Waving. (17th Century, Scot- 
tish.) 373 

When shall We Three Meet again ? (18th Cen- 
tury, English.) 163 

When the 'Grass shall Cover Me. {19th Century, 

English.) 324 

Willi'e's Visit to Melville Castle. (17th Century, 

Scottish.) 455 

Winif reda. (18th Century, English.) . . . .« 333 

Young Airly. (18i!A Century, Scottish.) 526 

Young Beichan and Susie Pye. (lUh Century, 

English.) 200 

Zara's Ear-rings. {Spanish.) 225 



PAET I. 
POEMS OF NATURE 



O VAST rondure, swimming in space, 

Covered all over with visible power and beauty ; 

Alternate light and day, and the teeming, spiritual darkness ; 

Unspeakable, high processions of sun and moon, and countless stars, above ; 

Below, the manifold grass and waters, animals, mountains, trees ; 

With inscrutable purpose, some hidden, prophetic intention ; — 

Now first, it seems, my thought begins to span thee. 

Walt Whitman. 



POEMS OF 


NATUEE. 


SDesrription of Spring. 


Thou, if stormy Boreas throws 




Do\vn whole forests when he blows, 


The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings, 


With a pregnant, flowery birth, 


With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale ; 


Canst refresh the teeming earth. 


The nightingale with feathers new she sings ; 


If he nip the early bud ; 


The turtle to her make hath told her tale. 


If he blast what's fair or good ; 


Summer is come, for every spray now springs ; 


If he scatter our choice flowers ; 


The hart hath hung his old head on the pale. 


If he shake oiir halls or bowers ; 


The buck in brake his winter coat he flings ; 


If his rude breath threaten us, 


The fishes flete with new repaired scale ; 


Thou canst stroke great iEolus, 


The adder all her slough away she flings; 


And from him the grace obtain, 


The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale ; 


To bind him in an iron chain. 


The busy bee her honey now she mings ; 


Thomas Cabew. 


Winter is worn that was the flowres' bale. 




And thiis I see among these pleasant things 




Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs. 




Henbt Howard, Earl of Surret. 


Hctnrn of Spring. 




God shield ye, heralds of the spring, 




Ye faithful swallows, fleet of wing, 


S[|)e ^irs of Spring. 


Houps, cuckoos, nightingales, 
Turtles, and every wilder bird. 


Sweetly breathing, vernal air, 


That make your hundred chirpings heard 


That with kind warmth doth repair 


Through the green woods and dales. 


Winter's ruins ; from whose breast 




All the gums and spice of th' East 


God shield ye, Easter daisies all. 


Borrow their perfumes ; whose eye 


Fair roses, buds, and blossoms small. 


Gilds the morn, and clears the sky ; 


And he whom erst the gore 


Whose dishevelled tresses shed 


Of Ajax and Nareiss did print. 


Pearls upon the violet bed ; 


Ye wild thyme, anise, balm, and mint. 


On whose brow, with calm smiles drest, 


I welcome ye once more. 


The halcyon sits and builds her nest ; 




Beauty, youth, and endless spring. 


God shield ye, bright, embroidered train 


Dwell upon thy rosy wing ! 


Of butterflies, that on the plain. 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Of each sweet herblet sip ; 
And ye, new swarms of bees, that go 
Where the pink flowers and yellow grow, 

To kiss them with your lip. 

A hundred thousand times I call 
A hearty welcome on ye all : 

This season how I love, 
This merry din on every shore, 
For winds and storms, whose suUen roar 

Forbade my steps to rove. 

PiEEBE KoNSABD (French). 
Anonymous Translation. 



Spiring. 

Dip down upon the northern shore, 
sweet new year, delaying long ; 
Thou doest expectant nature wrong, 

Delaying long ; delay no more. 

"What stays thee from the clouded noons. 
Thy sweetness from its proper place ? 
Can trouble live with April days. 

Or sadness in the summer moons ? 

Bring orchis, bring the fox-glove spire. 
The little speedwell's darling blue. 
Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew, 

Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. 

thou, new year, delaying long, 
Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 
That longs to burst a frozen bud. 

And flood a fresher throat with song. 



Now fades the last long streak of snow, 
Now burgeons every maze of quick 
About the flowering squares, and thick 

By ashen roots the violets blow. 

Now rings the woodland loud and long. 
The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
And drowned in yonder living blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea. 
The flocks are whiter down the vale, 
And milkier every milky sail. 

On winding stream or distant sea ; 



Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 
In yonder greening gleam, and fly 
The happy birds, that change their sky 

To build and brood, that live their lives 

From land to land ; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too : and my regret 
Becomes an April violet. 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 

AuPKBD Tennyson. 



tol)en tl)C f onnb0 of Spring. 

When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, 
The mother of months in meadow or plain 

Fills the shadows and windy places 
With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ; 

And the brown bright nightingale amorous 

Is half assuaged for Itylus, 

For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces. 
The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 

Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers, 

Maiden most perfect, lady of light. 
With a noise of winds and many rivers. 

With a clamor of waters, and with might ; 
Bind on thy sandals, thou most fleet. 
Over the splendor and speed of thy feet ; 
For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, 

Round the feet of the day and the feet of thenight. 

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, 
Fold our hands round her knees and cling ? 

Oh that man's heart were as fire and could spring 
to her. 
Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring ! 

For the stars and the winds are unto her 

As raiment, as songs of the harp-player ; 

For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, 
And the south-west wind and the west wind sing. 

For winter's rains and ruins are over, 
And all the season of snows and sins ; 

The days dividing lover and lover, • 
The light that loses, the night that wins ; 

And time remembered is grief forgotten. 

And frosts are slain and flowers begotten. 

And in green underwood and cover 
Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 



A 



APRIL. 5 


The full streams feed on flower of rushes, 


Small clouds are sailing. 


Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, 


Blue sky prevailing ; 


The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes 


The rain is over and gone ! 


From leaf to flower and flower to fruit ; 


William Wordsworth. 


And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire. 




And the oat is heard above the lyi'e. 




And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes 




The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. 


^ptil. 


And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, 


Lessons sweet of Spring returning. 


Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, 


Welcome to the thoughtful heart ! 


Follows with dancing and fills with delight 


May I call ye sense or learning. 


The Msenad and the Bassarid ; 


Instinct pure, or heaven-taught art ? 


And soft as lips that laugh and hide. 


Be your title what it may. 


The laughing leaves of the trees divide. 


Sweet and lengthening April day. 


And screen from seeing and leave in sight 


While with you the soul is free. 


The god pursuing, the maiden hid. 


Ranging wild o'er hill and lea; 


The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair 


Soft as Memnon's harp at morning, 


Over her eyebrows shading her eyes ; 


To the inward ear devout. 


The wild vine slipping down leaves bare 


Touched by light with heavenly warning. 


Her bright breast shortening into sighs ; 


Your transporting chords ring out. 


The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves. 


Every leaf in every nook, 


But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 


Every wave in every brook. 


To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare 


Chanting with a solemn voice, 


The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. 


Minds us of our better choice. 


Alsebkon Charles Swinburne. 






Needs no show of mountain hoary. 




Winding shore or deepening glen, 


iHarcI). 


Where the landscape in its glory. 


Teaches truth to wandering men. 


The cock is crowing. 


Give true hearts but earth and sky. 


The stream is flowing. 


And some flowers to bloom and die. 


The small birds twitter, 


Homely scenes and simple views 


The lake doth glitter. 


Lowly thoughts may best infuse. 


The green field sleeps in the sun ; 




The oldest and youngest 


See the soft green willow springing 


Are at work with the strongest ; 


Where the waters gently pass, 


The cattle are grazing, 


Every way her free arms flinging 


Their heads never raising ; 


O'er the moss and reedy grass ; 


There are forty feeding like one ! 


Long ere winter blasts are fled,' 




See her tipped with vernal red. 


Like an army defeated 


And her kindly flower displayed 


The snow hath retreated. 


Ere her leaf can cast a shade. 


And now doth fare ill 




On the top of the bare hill ; 


Though the rudest hand assail her, 


The ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon 


Patiently she droops awhile. 


There's joy on the mountains ; 


But when showers and breezes hail her. 


There's life in the fountains ; 


Wears again her winning smile. 



6 P0E3IS OF NATURE. 


Thus I learn contentment's power 




Prom the slighted willow bower, 


Song: ®n £S\.a^ ittornittjg. 


Keady to give thanks and live 

On the least that Heaven may give. 


Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger. 


Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her 


If, the quiet brooklet leaving, 


The flowery May, who from her green lap throws 


Up the stormy vale I wind, 


The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. 


Haply half in fancy grieving 


Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire 


For the shades I leave behind, 


Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ; 


By the dusty wayside dear. 


Woods and groves are of thy dressing. 


Nightingales with joyous cheer 


HUl and dale doth boast thy blessing. 


Sing, my sadness to reprove. 


Thus we salute thee with our early song. 


Gladlier than in cultured grove. 


And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 




John Milton. 


Where the thickest boughs are twining 




Of the greenest, darkest tree, 




There they plunge, the light declining — 




All may hear, but none may see. 


% JDrop of iDero. 


Fearless of the passing hoof, 




Hardly will they ileet aloof ; 


See how the orient dew. 


So they live in modest ways. 


Shed from the bosom of the morn 


Trust entire, and ceaseless praise. 


Into the blowing roses. 


John Keble. 


(Yet careless of its mansion new 


For the clear region where 'twas born) 




Round in itself incloses. 


0|)nng. 


And in its little globe's extent 


Frames, as it can, its native element. 


Behold the young, the rosy Spring, 


How it the purple flower does slight, 


Gives to the breeze her scented wing. 


Scarce touching where it lies ; 


AVliUe virgin graces, warm with May, 


But gazing back upon the skies. 


Fling roses o'er her dewy way. 


Shines Avith a mournful light. 


The murmuring billows of the deep 


Like its own tear. 


Have languished into silent sleep ; 


Because so long divided from the sphere ; 


And mark ! the flitting sea-birds lave 


Restless it rolls, and unsecure. 


Then- plumes in the reflecting wave ; 


Trembling, lest it grow impure ; 


While cranes from hoary winter fly 


Till tha warm sun pities its pain. 


To flutter in a kinder sky. 


And to the skies exhales it back again. 


Now the genial star of day 


So the soul, that drop, that ray. 


Dissolves the murky clouds away. 


Of the clear fountain of eternal day. 


And cultured field and winding stream 


Could it within the human flower be seen. 


Are freshly glittering in his beam. 


Remembering still its former height. 


Now the earth prolific swells 


Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green. 


With leafy buds and flowery bells ; 


And, recollecting its own light. 


Gemming shoots the olive twine ; 


Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, ex- 


Clusters bright festoon the vine ? 


press 


All along the branches creeping. 


The greater heaven in a heaven less. 


Through the velvet foliage peeping. 


In how coy a figure wound. 


Little infant fruits we see 


Every way it turns away ; 


Nursing into luxury. 


So the world excluding round, 


Translation of Thomas Mooee. Anaceeon. 


Yet receiving in the day. 



31 AY. 



Dark beneath, but bright above ; 
Here disdaining, there in love. 
How loose and easy hence to go ! 
How girt and ready to ascend ! 
Moving but on a point below, 
It all about does upwards bend. 
Such did the manna's sacred dew distil, 
White and entire, although congealed and chill - 
Congealed on earth, but does dissolving run 
Into the glories of the Almighty sun. 

Andrew Mabvell. 



Song. 

Phoebus, arise, 

And paint the sable skies 

With azure, white, and red, 

Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tython's bed, 

That she thy career may with roses spread. 

The nightingales thy coming each Avhere sing 

Make an eternal spring. 

Give life to this dark world which lieth dead ; 

Spread forth thy golden hair 

In larger locks than thou was wont before. 

And, emperor-like, decore 

With diadem of pearl thy temples fair : 

Chase hence the ugly night. 

Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. 

This is that happy morn. 

That day, long-wished day. 

Of all my life so dark, 

(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn, 

And fates my hopes betray,) 

Wliich, purely white, deserves 

An everlasting diamond should it mark. 

This is the morn should bring unto this grove 

My love, to hear, and recompense my love. 

Fair king, who all preserves. 

But show thy blushing beams, 

And thou two sweeter eyes 

Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams 

Did once thy heart surprise : 

Nay, suns, which shine as clear 

As thou when two thou didst to Rome appear. 

Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise. 

If that ye winds would hear 

A voice surpassing, far, Amphion's lyre. 

Your furious chiding stay ; 



Let Zephyr only breathe. 

And with her tresses play, 

Kissing sometimes those purple ports of death. 

The winds all silent are, 

And PhoebiTS in his chair 

Bnsaffroning sea and air, 

Makes vanish every star : 

Night like a drunkard reels 

Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels. 

The fields with flowers are decked in every hue, 

The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue : 

Here is the pleasant place. 

And nothing wanting is, save she, alas ! 

William Drummond. 

Spring. 

Now the lusty Spring is seen ; 

Golden yellow, gaudy blue. 

Daintily invite the view. 
Everywhere, on every green, 
Roses blushing as they blow. 

And enticing men to pull ; 
Lilies whiter than the snow ; 

Woodbines of sweet honey full — 
All love's emblems, and all cry : 
Ladies, if not plucked, we die ! 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 



I FEEL a newer life in every gale ; 

The winds that fan the flowers. 
And with their welcome breathings fill the sail. 
Tell of serener hours, — 
Of hours that glide unfelt away 
Beneath the sky of May. 

The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls 

From his blue throne of air. 
And where his whispering voice in music falls, 
Beauty is budding there ; 
The bright ones of the valley break 
Their slumbers, and awake. 

The waving verdure rolls along the plain. 

And the wide forest weaves, 
To welcome back its playful mates again, 

A canopy of leaves ; 



8 POJEMS OF NATURE. 


And from its darkening shadow floats 




A gush of trembling notes. 


gummcr iConginga. 


Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May ; 


Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 


The tresses of the woods 


Waiting for the May — 


With the light dallying of the west-wind play, 


Waiting for the pleasant rambles, 


And the full-brimming floods, 


Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, 


As gladly to their goal they run, 


With the woodbine alternating. 


Hail the returning sun. 


Scent the dewy way. 


Jambs Gates Pekcival. 


Ah ! my heart is weary waiting. 




Waiting for the May. 


Song to iHttg. 


Ah ! my heai-t is sick with longing. 


Longing for the May — 


May, queen of blossoms, 


Longing to escape from study. 


And fulfilling flowers. 


To the young face fair and ruddy. 


With what pretty music 


And the thousand charms belonging 


Shall we charm the hours ? 


To the summer's day. 


Wilt thou have pipe and reed, 


Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, 


Blown in the open mead ? 


Longing for the May. 


Or to the lute give heed 




In the green bowers? 


Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing. 




Sighing for the May — 


Thou hast no need of us, 
Or pipe or wire, 


Sighing for their sure returning. 


When the summer beams are burning, 


That hast the golden bee 

Eipened with fire ; 
And many thousand more 
Songsters, that thee adore, 


Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying, 

All the winter lay. 
Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing. 


Filling earth's grassy fioor 


Sighing for the May. 


With new desire. 


Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing. 


Thou hast thy mighty herds, 


Throbbing for the May— 


Tame, and free livers ; 


Throbbing for the sea-side billows. 


Doubt not, thy music too 


Or the water-wooing willows ; 


In the deep rivers ; 


Where in laughing and in sobbing. 


And the whole plumy flight. 


Glide the streams away. 


Warbling the day and night — 


Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing. 


Up at the gates of light, 


Throbbing for the May. 


See, the lark quivers ! 






Waiting sad, dejected, weary, 


When with the jacinth 


Waiting for the May : 


Coy fountains are tressed : 


Spring goes by with wasted warnings — 


And for the mournful bird 


Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings — 


Greenwoods are dressed,* 


Summer comes, yet dark and dreary 


That did for Tereus pine ; 


Life still ebbs away ; 


Then shall our songs be thine, 


Man is ever weary, weary, 


To whom our hearts incline : 


Waiting for the May ! 


May, be thou blessed ! 


Denis Florence MacCartht. 


Lord Thurlotv. 





THE MERRY SU3IMER MONTHS. 9 


Mgljt 10 nigl] gone. 


iHorning in Coubon. 


Hey, now the day's dawning ; 


Earth has not anything to show more fair : 


The jolly cock's crowing ; 


Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 


The eastern sky's glowing ; 


A sight so touching in its majesty : 


Stars fade one by one ; 


This city now doth, like a garment, wear 


The thistle-cock's crying 


The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, 


On lovers long lying, 


Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 


Cease vowing and sighing ; 


Open unto the fields, and to the sky, 


The night is nigh gone. 


All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 




Never did sun more beautifully steep, 


The fields are o'erflowing 


In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill ; 


With gowans all glowing, 


Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 


And white lilies growing, 


The river glideth at his own sweet will ; 


A thousand as one ; 


Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 


The sweet ring-dove cooing, 


And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 


His love notes renewing, 


WtLLiAM Wordsworth. 


Now moaning, now suing ; 




The night is nigh gone. 






^\)t Sabbatli iHorning. 


The season excelling, 




In scented flowers smelling, 


With silent awe I hail the sacred mom, 


To kind love compelling 


That slowly wakes while all the fields are stiU. 


Our hearts every one ; 


A soothing calm on every breeze is borne ; 


With sweet ballads moving 


A graver murmur gurgles from the rill ; 


The maids we are loving, 


And echo answers softer from the hill ; 


Mid musing and roving 


And softer sings the linnet from the thorn : 


The night is nigh gone. 


The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill. 




Hail, light serene ! hail, sacred Sabbath morn ! 


Of war and fair women 


The rooks float silent by in airy drove ; 


The young knights are dreaming, 


The sun a placid yellow luster throws ; 


With bright breastplates gleaming, 


The gales that lately sighed along the grove. 


And plumed helmets on ; 


Have hushed their downy wings in dead repose ; 


The barbed steed neighs lordly, 


The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move. 


And shakes his mane proudly, 


So smiled the day when the first mom arose ! 


For war-trumpets loudly 


John Letden. 


Say night is nigh gone. 




I see the flags flowing, 
The warriors all glowing, 


3:i)e iHerrg Summer iHontJjs. 


And, snorting and blowing, 


They come ! the merry summer months of beauty, 


The steeds rushing on ; 


song, and flowers ; 


The lances are crashing, 


They come ! the gladsome months that bring thick 


Out broad blades come flashing 


leafiness to bowers. 


Mid shouting and dashing ; 


Up, up, my heart ! and walk abroad ; fling cark 


The night is nigh gone. 


and care aside ; 


Alexaijdeb Moktgomeet. 


Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful 


Version of Allan Cuitninsham. 


waters glide ; 



10 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree, 
Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt 
tranquillity. 

The grass i*soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the 
hand ; 

And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is 
sweet and bland ; 

The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courte- 
ously ; 

It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and 
welcome thee ; 

And mark how with thine own thin locks — they 
now are silvery gray — 

That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering, 
" Be gay ! " 

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon 
sky, 

But hath its own winged mariners to give it mel- 
ody; 

Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all 
gleaming like red gold ; 

And hark ! with shrill pipe musical, their merry 
course they hold. 

God bless them all, those little ones, who, far above 
this earth, 

Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a no- 
bler mirth. 

But soft ! mine ear upcaught a sound — from yon- 
der wood it came ! 

The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his 
own glad name. 

Yes, it is he ! the hermit bird, that, apart from all 
his kind, 

Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft west- 
ern wind ; 

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again — his notes -are 
void of art ; 

But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep 
founts of the heart. 

Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for thought- 
crazed wight like me. 

To smell again these summer flowers beneath this 
summer tree ! 

To suck once more in every breath their little souls 
away, 



And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's 
bright summer day. 

When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reek- 
less, truant boy 

Wandered through greenwoods aU day long, a 
mighty heart of joy ! 

I'm sadder now — I have had cause; but 0! I'm 
proud to think 

That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I yet de- 
light to drink; — 

Leaf, blossom, blade,, hill, valley, stream, the calm, 
unclouded sky. 

Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days 
gone by. 

When summer's loveliness and light fall round 
me dark and cold, 

I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse, — a heart that 

hath waxed old ! 

William Motherwell. 



Jttorning. 

Hakk — hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings. 

And Phojbus 'gins arise. 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On ehaliced flowers that lies : 
And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With every thing that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet, arise. 

Arise, arise ! 

William Shakespeare. 



Slo i\\t Skglark. 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! 

Bird thou never wert. 
That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher 

Prom the earth thou springest. 

Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 



TO THE SKYLARK. 



11 



111 the golden lightning 

Of the setting sun, 
O'er which clouds are brightening, 

Thou dost float and run ; 
Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale, purple even 

Melts around thy flight ; 
Like a star of heaven. 

In the broad daylight. 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. 

Keen as are the arrows 
Of that silver sphere. 
Whose intense lamp narrows 
In the white da'mi clear. 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud, 
As, when night is bare, 
From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is over- 
flowed. 

Wliat thou art we know not ; 

What is most like thee ? • 
From rainbow-clouds there flow not 

Drops so bright to see, 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought. 
Singing hymns unbidden. 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not ; 

Like a high-born maiden, 

In a palace tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her 
bower ; 

Like a glow-worm golden. 

In a dell of dew. 
Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass wliich screen it from 
the view ; 



Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves, 
By warm winds deflowered. 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy- 
winged thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awakened flowers, 

All that ever was 
Joyous, and fresh, and clear, thy music doth surpass. 

Teach us, sprite or bird. 
What sweet thoughts are thine : 

I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 

Chorus hymeneal. 

Or triumphant chant, 
Matched with thine would be all 

But an empty vaunt — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain ? 
What fields, or waves, or mountains ? 
What shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of 
pain? 

With thy clear, keen joyance 

Languor cannot be ; 
Shadow of annoyance 

Never came near thee ; 
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep. 

Thou of death must deem 

Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream ; 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream f 

We look before and after. 

And pine for what is not ; 
Our sincerest laughter 
With some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest 
thought. 



12 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Yet if we could scorn 
Hate, and pride, and fear ; 

If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound ; 
Better than all treasures 

That in books are found, 
Thy skill to poet were, thou seorner of the ground. 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 
Prom my lips would flow. 
The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 
Pekcy Bysshe Shelley. 



®l)c taxk. 

Bird of the wilderness, 
Blithesome and cumberless. 

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea ! 
Emblem of happiness, 
Blest is thy dwelling-place — 

to abide in the desert with thee ! 
Wild is thy lay, and loud. 
Far in the downy cloud ; 

Love gives it energy — love gave it birth ! 
Where, on thy dewy wing — 
Where art thou journeying? 

Thy lay is in heaven — thy love is on earth. 

O'er fell and fountain sheen. 
O'er moor and mountain green. 

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day ; 
Over the cloudlet dim. 
Over the rainbow's rim. 

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away ! 

Then, when the gloaming comes, 
Low in the heather blooms, 

Sweet wUl thy welcome and bed of love be ! 
Emblem of happiness. 
Blest is thy dwelling-place — 

O to abide in the desert with thee ! 

James Hogg. 



Song. 

'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark. 

That bids a blithe good-morrow ; 
But sweeter to hark, in the twinkling dark. 

To the soothing song of sorrow. 
nightingale ! What doth she ail ? 

And is she sad or jolly ? 
For ne'er on earth was sound of mirth 

So like to melancholy. 

The merry lark, he soars on high. 

No worldly thought o'ertakes him : 
He sings aloud to the clear blue sky. 

And the daylight that awakes him. 
As sweet a lay, as loud, as gay. 

The nightingale is trilling ; 
With feeling bliss, no less than his, 

Her little heart is thrilling. 

Yet ever and anon, a sigh 

Peers through her lavish mirth ; 
For the lark's bold song is of the sky, 

And hers is of the earth. 
By night and day she tunes her lay, 

To drive away all sorrow ; 
For bliss, alas ! to-night must pass, 

And woe may come to-morrow. 

Hartley Coleridge. 



Song. 

Pack cloads away, and welcome day, 
With night we banish sorrow ; 

Sweet air, blow soft ; mount, lai-k, aloft, 
To give my love good-morrow. 

Wings from the wind to please her mind, 
Notes from the lark I'll borrow : 

Bird, pi-une thy wing ; nightingale, sing. 
To give my love good-morrow. 
To give my love good-morrow, 
Notes from them all I'll boi-row. 

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast, 

Sing, birds, in every furrow ; 
And from each hill let music shrill 

Give my fair love good-morrow. 



THE ANGLER. 13 


Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 


Other joys 


Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow. 


Are but toys ; 


You pretty elves, amongst yourselves, 


Only this 


Sing my fair love good-morrow. 


Lawful is ; 


To give my love good-morrow, 


For our skill 


Sing, birds, in every furrow. 


Breeds no ill, 


Thomas Heywood. 


But content and pleasure. 




In a morning, up we rise, 


Qi:i)e "S-ngkr's (ZCrsstiug-Srce. 


Ere Aurora's peeping ; 
Drink a cup to wash our eyes. 


Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing ! 


Leave the sluggard sleeping ; 


Meet the morn upon the lea ; 


Then we go, 


Are the emeralds of the spring 


To and fro. 


On the angler's trysting-tree ? 


With our knacks 


Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me, 


At our backs, 


Are there buds on our willow-tree ? 


To such streams 


Buds and birds on our trysting-tree f 


As the Thames, 




If we have the leisure. 


Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing ! 




Have you met the honey-bee. 


When we please to walk abroad. 


Circling upon rapid wing. 


For our recreation ; 


'Round the angler's trysting-tree ? 


In the fields is our abode, 


Up, sweet thrushes, up and see. 


Full of delectation. 


Are there bees at our willow-tree ? 


Where, in a brook, 


Bii'ds and bees at the trysting-tree ? 


With a hook — 


Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing ! 


Or a lake, — 


Are the fountains gushing free ? 


Fish we take ; 


Is the south wind wandering 


There we sit. 


Through the angler's trysting-tree ? 


For a bit. 


Up, sweet thrushes, tell to me, 


Till we fish entangle. 


Is there wind up our willow-tree ? 




Wind or calm at our trysting-tree ? 


We have gentles in a horn. 
We have paste and worms too ; 


Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing ! 


We can watch both night and morn, 


Wile us with a merry glee ; 


Suffer rain and storms too ; 


To the flowery haunts of spring, 


None do here 


To the angler's trysting-tree. 


Use to swear. 


Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me, 


Oaths do fray 


Are there flowers 'neath our willow-tree ? 


Fish away ; 


Spring-and flowers at the trysting-tree? 


We sit still, 


Thomas Tod Stoddart. 


Watch our quill : 




Fishers must not wrangle. 


^\\z Angler. 


If the sun's excessive heat 


Make our bodies swelter, 


! the gallant fisher's life, 


To an osier hedge we get. 


It is the best of any : 


For a friendly shelter ; 


'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife. 


Where — in a dyke. 


And 'tis beloved by many ; 


Perch or pike. 



14 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Roach or dace, 
We do chase, 
Bleak or gudgeon, 
Without grudging ; 
We are still contented. 

Or, we sometimes pass an hour 

Under a green willow, 
That defends us from a shower, 
Making earth our pillow ; 
Where we may 
Think and pray, 
Before death 
Stops our breath ; 
Other joys 
Are but toys, 
And to be lamented. 

John Chalkhii-l. 



berses in |)raise of !^ngling. 

Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares. 
Anxious sighs, untimely tears, 

Fly, fly to courts, 

Fly to fond worldlings' sports, 
' Where strained sardonic smiles are glosing still. 
And Grief is forced to laugh against her will. 

Where mirth's but mummery. 

And sorrows only real be. 

Fly from our country pastimes, fly, 
Sad troops of human misery ; 

Come, serene looks, 

Clear as the crystal brooks. 
Or the pure azured heaven that smiles to see 
The rich attendance on our poverty ; 

Peace and a secure mind, 

Which all men seek, we only find. 

Abused mortals ! did you loiow 

Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow. 
You'd scorn proud towers 
And seek them in these bowers, >> 

Where winds, sometimes, our woods perhaps may 
shake. 

But blustering care could never tempest make. 
Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us. 
Saving of fountains that glide by us. 



Here's no fantastic mask nor dance, 
But of our kids that frisk and prance ; 

Nor wars are seen. 

Unless upon the green 
Two harmless lambs are butting one the other. 
Which done, both bleating run, each to his 
mother ; 

And wounds are never found, 

Save what the ploughshare gives the ground. 

Here are no entrapping baits 
To hasten to too hasty fates ; 

Unless it be 

The fond credulity 
Of silly fish, which, worldling like, still look 
Upon the bait, but never on the hook ; 

Nor envy, 'less among 

The birds, for price of their sweet song. 

Go, let the diving negro seek 

For gems, hid in some forlorn creek : 

We aU pearls scorn 

Save what the dewy morn 
Congeals upon each little spire of grass. 
Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass ; 

And gold ne'er here appears. 

Save what the yellow Ceres bears. 

Blest silent groves, oh, may you be. 
For ever, mirth's best nursery ! 
May pure contents 
For ever pitch their tents 
Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these 

mountains ; 
And peace stUl slumber by these piuiing foun- 
tains. 
Which we may every year 
Meet, when we come a-fishing here. 

Sir Henbt Wotton. 



m\& angler's toJisl). 

I IN these flowery meads would be. 
These crystal streams should solace me ; 
To whose harmonious bubbling noise 
I, with my angle, would rejoice, 

Sit here, and see the turtle-dove 
Court his chaste mate to acts of love ; 



TEE BOBOLINK. 15 


Or, on that bank, feel the west wind 


Calling out each bud and flower 


Breathe health and plenty ; please my mind. 


With resistless, secret power, 


To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, 


Waking hope and fond desire. 


And then washed off by April showers ; 


Kindling the erotic fire. 


Here, hear my kenna sing a song : 


Filling youths' and maidens' dreams 


There, see a blackbird feed her young, 


With mysterious, pleasing themes ; 




Then, amid the sunlight clear 


Or a laverock build her nest ; 


Floating in the fragrant air. 


Here, give my weary spirits rest, 


Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure 


And raise my low-pitched thoughts above 


By thy glad ecstatic measure. 


Earth, or what poor mortals love. 




Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise 


A single note, so sweet and low. 


Of princes' courts, I would rejoice ; 


Like a full heart's overflow. 




Forms the prelude ; but the strain 


Or, with my Bryan and a book. 


Gives no such tone again. 


Loiter long days near Shawf ord brook ; 


For the wild and saucy song 


There sit by him, and eat my meat ; 


Leaps and skips the notes among, 


There see the sun both rise and set ; 


With such quick and sportive play, 


There bid good morning to next day ; 


Ne'er was madder, merrier lay. 


There meditate my time away ; 




And angle on ; and beg to have 


Gayest songster of the Spring ! 


A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 


Thy melodies before me bring 


IzAAK Walton. 


Visions of some dream-built land, 




Where, by constant zephyrs fanned, 




I might walk the livelong day. 




Embosomed in perpetual May. 


^\)t JBobolink. 


Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows ; 




For thee a tempest never blows ; 


Bobolink ! that in the meadow, 




Or beneath the orchard's shadow. 


But when our northern Summer's o'er. 


Keepest up a constant rattle 


By Delaware's or Schuylkill's shore 


Joyous as my children's prattle. 


The wild rice lifts its airy head, 


Welcome to the north again ! 


And royal feasts for thee are spread. 


Welcome to mine ear thy strain. 


And when the Winter threatens there. 


Welcome to mine eye the sight 


Thy tireless wings yet own no fear. 


Of thy buff, thy black and white. 


But bear thee to more southern coasts. 


Brighter plumes may greet the sun 


Far beyond the reach of frosts. 


By the banks of Amazon ; 




Sweeter tones may weave the spell 


Bobolink ! still may thy gladness 


Of enchanting Philomel ; 


Take from me all taints of sadness ; 


But the tropic bird would fail, 


Fill my soul with trust unshaken 


And the English nightingale. 


In that Being who has taken 


If we should compare their worth 


Care for every living thing, 


With thine endless, gushing mirth. 


In Summer, Winter, Fall, and Spring. 




Thomas Hill. 


When the ides of May are past, 




June and Summer nearing fast. 


, 


While from depths of blue above 




Comes the mighty breath of love. 





16 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



8[o tlje €ncko0. 

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! 

Thou messenger of Spring ! 
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat, 

And woods thy welcome sing. 

Soon as the daisy decks the green, 

Thy certain voice we hear. 
Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 

Or mark the rolling year ? 

Delightful vistant ! with thee 

I hail the time of flowers, 
And hear the sound of music sweet 

From birds among the bowers. 

The schoolboy, wandering through the wood 

To pull the primrose gay. 
Starts, thy most curious voice to hear. 

And imitates thy lay. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom. 

Thou fliest thy vocal vale, 
An annual guest in other lands, 

Another Spring to hail. 

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green. 

Thy sky is ever clear ; 
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, 

No Winter in thy year ! 

Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! 

We'd make, with joyful wing. 
Our annual visit o'er the globe. 

Attendants on the Spring. 

John Logan. 



QTo tl)e OTuckoo. 

BLITHE new-comer ! I have heard, 

I hear thee and rejoice. 
Cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird. 

Or but a wandering voice ? » 

While I am lying on the grass, 
Thy twofold shout I hear ; 

From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
At once far off, and near. 



Though babbling only to the vale, 

Of sunshine and of flowers. 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 

Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring I 

Even yet thou art to me 
No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery ; 

The same that in my schoolboy days 

I listened to — that cry 
Which made ine look a thousand ways. 

In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 

Through woods and on the green ; 

And thou wert still a hope, a love. 
Still longed for, never seen. 

And I can listen to thee yet ; 

Can lie upon the plain 
And listen till I do beget 

That golden time again. 

blessed bird ! the earth we pace 

Again appears to be 
An imsubstantial, faery place. 

That is fit home for thee ! 

William Woedsworth. 



2[|)c Cuckoo. 

We heard it calling, clear and low, 
That tender April morn ; we stood 
And listened in the quiet wood. 

We heard it, ay, long years ago. 

It came, and with a strange, sweet cry, 
A Friend, but from a far-off land ; 
We stood and listened, hand in hand, 

And heart to heart, my Love and I. 

In dreamland then we found our joy. 
And so it seemed as 'twere the Bird 
That Helen in old times had heard 

At noon beneath the oaks of Troy. 



THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 



17 



time fer off, and yet so near ! 

It came to lier in that hushed grove, 
It warbled while the wooing throve, 

It sang the song she loved to hear. 

And now I hear its voice again, 

And still its message is of peace. 
It sings of love that will not cease — 

For me it never sings in vain. 

Fkedekiok Locker. 



^\\e Qlurkoo an5 l\]& Nigljtingale. 

The God of Love, — ah ienedicite ! 
How mighty and how great a lord is he ! 
For he of low hearts can make high ; of high 
He can make low, and unto death bring nigh ; 
And hard hearts, he can make them kind and free. 

Within a little time, as hath been found. 

He can make sick folk whole and fresh and sound : 

Them who are whole in body and in mind. 

He can make sick ; bind can he and unbind 

All that he will have bound, or have unbound. 

To tell his might my wit may not suffice ; 
Foolish men he can make them out of wise — 
For he may do all that he will devise ; 
Loose livers he can make abate their vice, 
And proud hearts can make tremble in a trice. 

In brief, the whole of what he wiU he may ; 
Against him dare not any wight say nay ; 
To humble or aflict whome'er he will, 
To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill ; 
But most his might he sheds on the eve of May. 

For every true heart, gentle heart and free. 

That with him is, or thinketh so to be, 

Now, against May, shall have some stirring, — 

whether 
To joy, or be it to some mourning ; never. 
At other time, methmks, in like degree. 

For now, when they may hear the small birds' song. 
And see the budding leaves the branches throng. 
This unto their remembrance doth bring 
All kinds of pleasure, mixed with sorrowing ; 
And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long. 



heaviness doth come, 
sickness grows of heart 



and 



And of that longinj 
Whence oft great 

home; 
Sick are they all for lack of their desire ; 
And thus in May their hearts are set on fire. 
So that they burn forth in great martyrdom. 



In sooth, I speak from feeling ; what though now 
Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow ; 
Yet have I felt of sickness through the May, 
Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every day, — 
How hard, alas ! to bear, I only know. 

Such shaking doth the fever in me keep 

Through all this May, that I have little sleep ; 

And also 'tis not likely unto me. 

That any living heart should sleepy be, 

In which Love's dart its fiery point doth steep. 

But tossing lately on a sleepless bed, 
I of a token thought, which lovers heed : 
How among them it was a common tale. 
That it was good to hear the nightingale 
Ere the vile cuckoo's note be uttered. 

And then I thought anon, as it was day, 
I gladly would go somewhere to essay 
If I perchance a nightingale might hear ; 
For yet had I heard none, of all that year ; 
And it was then the third night of the May. 

As soon as I a glimpse of day espied, 

No longer would I in my bed abide ; 

But straightway to a wood, that was hard by. 

Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly. 

And held the pathway down by a brook-side ; 

Till to a lawn I came, all white and green ; 

I in so fair a one had never been : 

The ground was green, with daisy powdered over ; 

TaU were the fiowers, the grove a lofty cover. 

All green and white, and nothing else was seen. 

There sat I down among the fair, fresh flowers. 
And saw the birds come tripping from their 

bowers. 
Where they had rested them aU night ; and they, 
Who were so joyful at the light of day. 
Began to honor May with all their powers. 



18 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Well did they know that service all by rote ; 
And there was many and many a lovely note — 
Some, singing loud, as if they had complained ; 
Some with their notes another manner feigned ; 
And some did sing all out with the full throat. 

They pruned themselves, and made themselves 

right gay, 
Dancing and leaping light upon the spray ; 
And ever two and two together were. 
The same as they had chosen for the year, 
Upon Saint Valentine's returning day. 

Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sat upon, 
Was making such a noise as it ran on. 
Accordant to the sweet bird's harmony ; 
Methought that it was the best melody 
Wliich ever to man's ear a passage won. 

And for delight, but how I never wot, 
I in a slumber and a swoon was caught, 
Not all asleep and yet not waking wholly ; 
And as I lay, the Cuckoo, bird unholy. 
Broke silence, or I heard him in my thought. 

And that was right upon a tree fast by, 
And who was then ill satisfied but I ? 
Now God, quoth I, that died upon the rood, 
From thee and thy base throat keep all that's good ; 
Full little joy have I now of thy cry. 

And, as I with the Cuckoo thus 'gan chide, 
In the next bush that was me fast beside, 
I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing. 
That her clear voice made a loud rioting, 
Echoing through all the greenwood wide. 

Ah ! good sweet Nightingale ! for my heart's cheer, 
Hence hast thou stayed a little while too long ; 
For we have had the sorry Cuckoo here, 
And she hath been before thee with her song ; 
Evil light on her ! she hath done me wrong. 

But hear you now a wondrous thing, I pray : 
As long as in that swooning-fit I lay, 
Methought I wist right well what these birds meant. 
And had good knowing both of their intent 
And of their speech, and all that they would say. 



The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake : 
Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake. 
And, prithee, let us that can sing, dwell here ; 
For every wight eschews thy song to hear. 
Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make. 

What ! quoth she then, what is't that ails thee 

now? 
It seems to me I sing as well as thou ; 
For mine's a song that is both true and plain, 
Although I cannot quaver so in vain 
As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not how. 

AU men may understanding have of me. 
But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee ; 
For thou hast many a foolish and quaint cry : 
Thou sayest Osee, Osee, then how may I 
Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may be ? 

Ah ! fool, quoth she, wist thou not what it is ? 
Oft as I say Osee, Osee, I wis, 
Then mean I, that I should be wondrous fain 
That shamefully they one and all were slain, 
Whoever against Love mean aught amiss. 

And also would I that they all were dead, 
Wlio do not think in love their life to lead, 
For who is loth the God of Love to obey 
Is only fit to die, I dare well say ; 
And for that cause Osee I cry ; take heed ! 

Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a quaint law. 
That all must love or die ; but I withdraw, 
And take my leave of all such company. 
For my intent it neither is to die, 
Nor ever while I live Love's yoke to draw. 

For lovers, of all folk that be alive. 
The most disquiet have, and least do thrive ; 
Most feeling have of sorrow, woe, and care. 
And the least welfare cometh to their share ; 
What need is there against the truth to strive ? 

What ! quoth she, thou art all out of thy mind, 
That, in thy churlishness, a cause canst find 
To speak of Love's true servants in this mood ; 
For in this world no service is so good, 
To every wight that gentle is of kind. 



THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 



19 



For thereof comes all goodness and all worth ; 
And gentiless and honor thence come forth ; 
Thence worship comes, content, and true heart's 

pleasure. 
And full-assured trust, joy without measure, 
And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth ; 

And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy, 
And seemliness, and faithful company, 
And dread of shame that will not do amiss ; 
For he that faithfully Love's servant is. 
Rather than be disgraced, would chuse to die. 

And that the very truth it is which I 
Now say, — in such belief I'll live and die ; 
And, Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice. 
Then, quoth she, let me never hope for bliss, 
If with that counsel I do e'er comply. 

Good Mghtingale ! thou speakest wondrous fair. 
Yet, for aU that, the truth is found elsewhere ; 
For Love in young folk is but rage, I wis, 
And Love in old folk a great dotage is ; 
Who most it useth, him 'twiU most impair. 

For thereof come all contraries to gladness ; 
Thence sickness comes, and overwhelmmg sadness, 
Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate. 
Dishonor, shame, envy importunate, 
Pride, anger, mischief, poverty, and madness. 

Loving is aye an office of despair, 

And one thing is therein which is not fair : 

For whoso gets of love a little bliss. 

Unless it always stay with him, I wis 

He may full soon go with an old man's hair. 

And therefore, Nightingale ! do thou keep nigh ; 
For, trust me weU, in spite of thy quaint cry. 
If long time from thy mate thou be, or far, 
Thou'lt be as others that forsaken are ; 
Then shalt thou raise a clamor as do I. 

Fie, quoth she, on thy name, bird iU beseen ! 
The God of Love afflict thee with all teen. 
For thou art worse than mad a thousand-fold ; 
For many a one hath virtues manifold, 
Wlio had been naught, if Love had never been. 



For evermore his servants Love amendeth. 

And he from every blemish them def endeth : 

And maketh them to burn, as in a fire. 

In loyalty and worshipful desire ; 

And, when it likes him, joy enough them sendeth. 

Thou Nightingale ! the Cuckoo said, be stiU, 
For Love no reason hath but his own will ; — 
For to th' untrue he oft gives ease and joy ; 
True lovers doth so bitterly annoy, 
He lets them perish through that grievous ill. 

With such a master would I never be, 

For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see, 

And knows not when he hurts and when he 

heals ; 
Within his court full seldom truth avails, 
So diverse in his wilfulness js he. 

Then of the Nightingale did I take note. 
How from her inmost heart a sigh she brought. 
And said : Alas that ever I was born ! 
Not one word have I now, I'm so forlorn : 
And with that word, she into tears burst out. 

Alas, alas ! my very heart will break. 

Quoth she, to hear this churlish bird thus speak 

Of Love, and of his holy services ; 

Now, God of Love ! thou help me in some wise. 

That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak. 

And so, methought, I started up anon, 
And to the brook I ran and got a stone, 
Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast. 
That he for dread did fly away full fast ; 
And glad, in sooth, was I when he was gone. 

And as he flew, the Cuckoo, ever and aye, 

Kept crying : " Farewell ! — farewell. Popinjay ! " 

As if in scornful mockery of me ; 

And on I hunted him from tree to tree, 

Till he was far, all out of sight, away. 

Then straightway came the Nightingale to me. 
And said : Forsooth, my friend, do I thank thee. 
That thou wert near to rescue me ; and now 
Unto the God of Love I make a vow. 
That all this May I will thy songstress be. 



30 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



"Well satisfied, I thanked her ; and she said : 

By this mishap no longer be dismayed, 

Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou heard'st 

me ; 
Yet if I live it shall amended be, 
When next May comes, if I am not afraid. 

And one thing will I counsel thee also : 

The Cuckoo trust not thou, nor his Love's saw ; 

All that he said is an outrageous lie. 

Nay, nothing shall bring me thereto, quoth I, 

For Love and it hath done me mighty woe. 

Yea, hath it! Use, quoth she, this medicine : 
This May-time, every day before thou dine. 
Go look on the fresh daisy ; then say I, 
Although, for pain thou mayst be like to die. 
Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop and pine. 

And mind always that thou be good and true, 
And I wUl sing one song, of many new, 
For love of thee, as loud as I may cry. 
And then did she begin this song full high, 
" Beshrew all them that are in love untrue." 

And soon as she had sung it to an end, 

Now farewell, quoth she, for I hence must wend ; 

And, God of Love, that can right weU and may, 

Send unto thee as miclde joy this day. 

As ever he to lover yet did send. 

Thus takes the Nightingale her leave of me ; 
I pray to God with her always to be. 
And joy of love to send her evermore ; 
And shield us from the Cuckoo and her lore, 
For there is not so false a bird as she. 

Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightingale, 
To all the birds that lodged within that dale. 
And gathered each and all into one place. 
And them besought to hear her doleful ease ; 
And thus it was that she began her tale : 

The Cuckoo, — 'tis not well that I should hide 
How she and I did each the other chide. 
And without ceasing, since it was daylight ; 
And now I pray jaw. all to do me right 
Of that false bird, whom Love cannot abide. 



Then spake one bird, and full assent all gave : 
This matter asketh counsel good as grave ; 
For birds we are — all here together brought ; 
And, in good sooth, the Cuckoo here is not ; 
And therefore we a Parliament will have. 

And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord, 
And other Peers whose names are on record. 
A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent. 
And judgment there be given ; or, that intent 
Failing, we finally shaU make accord. 

And all this shall be done, without a nay, 
The morrow after Saint Valentine's day, 
Under a maple that is well beseen 
Before the chamber-window of the Queen, 
At Woodstock, on the meadow green and gay. 

She thanked them ; and then her leave she 

took, 
And flew into a hawthorn by that brook ; 
And there she sat and sung, upon that tree, 
" For term of life Love shall have hold of me," 
So loudly that I with that song awoke. 

Unlearned Book and rude, as well I know, — 
For beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence, — 
Who did on thee the hardiness bestow 
To appear before my Lady ? But a sense 
Thou surely hast of her benevolence. 
Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth give ; 
For of all good she is the best aUve. 

Alas, poor Book ! for thy unworthiness 

To show to her some pleasant meanings, writ 

In winning words, since through her gentiless 

Thee she accepts as for her service fit ! 

Oh ! it repents me I have neither wit 

Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give ; 

For of all good she is the best alive. 

Beseech her meekly with all lowliness, 
Though I be far from her I reverence. 
To think upon my truth and steadfastness ; 
And to abridge my sorrow's violence 
Caused by the wish, as knows your sapience, 
She of her liking proof to me would give ; 
For of all good she is the best alive. 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINaWORTH. 



21 



l'envoy. 
Pleasure's Aurora, day of gladsomeness ! 
Luna by night, with heavenly influence 
Illumined ! root of beauty and goodness ! 
Write, and allay, by your beneficence. 
My sighs breathed forth in silence, — comfort give ! 
Since of all good you are the best alive. 

Geoffrey Chatjcek. 
Version of William Wokdswokth. 



®l)e Slack Otock. 

Good-morrow to thy sable beak, 
And glossy plumage, dark and sleek. 
Thy crimson moon and azure eye, 
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy ! 
I see thee slowly cowering through 
That wiry web of silver dew, 
That twinkles in the morning air 
Like casement of my lady fair. 

A maid there is in yonder tower. 
Who, peeping from her early bower. 
Half shows, like thee, with simple wile. 
Her braided hair and morning smile. 
The rarest things, with wayward will. 
Beneath the covert hide them still ; 
The rarest things, to light of day 
Look shortly forth, and break away. 

One fleeting moment of delight 
I warmed me in her cheering sight ; 
And short, 1 ween, the time will be 
That I shall parley hold with thee. 
Through Snowden's mist, red beams the day ; 
The climbing herd-boy chants his lay ; 
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring ; 
Thou art already on the wing. 

Joanna Baillie. 



9[l)e i3irbs of KilUngtDortli. 

It was the season when through all the land 
The merle and mavis build, and building sing 

Those lovely lyrics written by His hand 
Wliom Saxon Caedmon calls the Blithe-heart 
Kinff ; 



When on the boughs the purple buds expand. 
The banners of the vanguard of the Spring ; 
And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap. 
And wave their fluttering signals from the steep. 

The robin and the bluebird, piping loud. 
Pilled all the blossoming orchards with their 
giee ; 

The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud 
Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be ; 

And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd. 
Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly. 

Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said, 

" Give us, Lord, this day our daily bread ! " 

Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed. 
Speaking some unknown language strange and 
sweet 

Of tropic isle remote, and, passing, hailed 
The village with the cheers of all their fleet ; 

Or, quarrelling together, laughed and railed 
Like foreign sailors landed in the street 

Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise 

Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys. 

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, 
In fabulous days, some hundred years ago ; 

And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth. 
Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow, 

Tliat mingled with the universal mirth, 
Cassandra-like prognosticating woe : 

They shook their heads, and doomed with dread- 
ful words 

To swift destruction the whole race of bii'ds. 

And a town-meeting was convened straightway 
To set a price upon the guilty heads 

Of these raaraiiders, who, in lieu of pay. 
Levied black-mail upon the garden-beds 

And cornfields, and beheld without dismay 
The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds. 

The skeleton that waited at their feast, 

Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased. 

Then from his house, a temple painted white. 
With fluted columns, and a roof of red. 

The Squire came forth, — august and splendid 
sight ! 
Slowly descending, with majestic tread,' 



22 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right, 

Down the long street he walked, as one who said, 
" A town that boasts inhabitants like me 
Can have no lack of good society." 

The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere. 
The instinct of whose nature was to kill ; 

The wrath of God he preached from year to year. 
And read with fervor Edwards on the Will : 

His favorite pastime was to slay the deer 
In summer on some Adirondack hill : 

E'en now, while walking down the rural lane. 

He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. 

From the Academy whose belfiy crowned 
The Hill of Science with its vane of brass. 

Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, 
Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass. 

And all absorbed in reveries profound 
Of fair Almira in the upper class, 

"Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, 

As pure as water and as good as bread. 

And next the Deacon issued from his door. 
In his voliiminous neck-cloth, white as snow ; 

A suit of sable bombazine he wore : 

His form was ponderous, and his step was slow ; 

There never was so wise a man before ; 
He seemed the incarnate " Well, I told you so ! " 

And to perpetuate his great renown, 

There was a street named after him in town. 

These came together in the new town-hall, 
With sundry farmers from the region round : 

The Squire presided, dignified and tall. 
His air impressive and his reasoning sound. 

Ill fared it with the birds, both great and small, 
Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found. 

But enemies enough, who every one 

Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun. 

When they had ended, from his place apart 
Eose the Preceptor, to redress the wrong. 

And, trembling like a steed before the start. 

Looked round bewildered on the expectant 
throng ; 

Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart 
To speak out what was in him, clear and strong. 



Alike regardless of their smile or frown, 

And quite determined not to be laughed down. 

" Plato, anticipating the reviewers. 
From his republic banished without pity 

The poets : in this little town of yours, 
You put to death, by means of a committee, 

The ballad-singers and the troubadours, 
The street-musicians of the heavenly city, 

The birds, who make sweet music for us all 

In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. 

" The thrush, that carols at the dawn of day 
From the green steeples of the piny wood ; 

The oriole in the elm ; the noisy jay, 
Jargoning like a foreigner at his food ; 

The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray. 
Flooding with melody the neighborhood ; 

Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng 

That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song, — 

"You slay them all! and wherefore? For the 
gain 

Of a scant handful, more or less, of wheat. 
Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, 

Scratched up at random by industrious feet 
Searching for worm or weevil after rain. 

Or a few cherries that are not so sweet 
As are the songs these uninvited guests 
Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. 

" Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings 
these ? 

Do you ne'er think who made them, and who 
taught 
The dialect they speak, where melodies 

Alone are the interpreters of thought ? 
Whose household words are songs in many keys, 

Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught ! 
Whose habitations in the tree-tops even 
Are half-way houses on the road to heaven ! 

" Think, every morning when the sun peeps through 
The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, 

How jubilant the happy birds renew 
Their old melodious madrigals of love ! 

And when you think of this, remember, too, 
'Tis always morning somewhere, and above 



THE BIRDS OF EILLINGWORTH. 



23 



The awakening continents from shore to shore, 
Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. 

" Think of your woods and orchards without birds ! 

Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams, 
As in an idiot's brain remembered words 

Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams ! 
Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds 

Make up for the lost music, when your teams 
Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more 
The feathered gleaners follow to your door 1 

" What ! would you rather see the incessant stir 
Of insects in the windrows of the hay. 

And hear the locust and the grasshopper 
Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play ? 

Is this more pleasant to you than the whir 
Of meadow-lark, and its sweet roundelay. 

Or twitter of little fieldfares, as you take 

Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake? 

" You call them thieves and pUlagers ; but know 
They are the winged wardens of your farms. 

Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe. 
And from your harvests keep a hundred harms ; 

Even the blackest of them all, the crow, 
Renders good service as your man-at-arms. 

Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, 

And crying havoc on the slug and snail. 

" How can I teach your children gentleness. 
And mercy to the weak, and reverence 

For Life, which, in its weakness or excess, 
Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence. 

Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less 
The self-same light, although averted hence, 

When by your laws, your actions, and yoiu- speech, 

You contradict the very things I teach ? " 

With this he closed; and through the audience 
went 

A murmur like the rustle of dead leaves ; 
The farmers laughed and nodded, and some bent 

Their yellow heads together like their sheaves : 
Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment 

Wlio put theu- trust in bullocks and in beeves. 
The birds were doomed ; and as the record shows, 
A bounty offered for the heads of crows. 



There was another audience out of reach. 
Who had no voice nor vote in making laws. 

But in the papers read his little speech. 
And crowned his modest temples with ap- 
plause : 

They made him conscious, each one more than 
each. 
He still was victor, vanquished in their cause : 

Sweetest of all the applause he won from thee, 

fair Almira, at the Academy ! 

And so the dreadful massacre began : 

O'er fields and orchards, and o'er woodland crests, 
The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. 

Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains on their 
breasts, 
Or wounded crept away from sight of man. 

While the young died of famine in their nests : 
A slaughter to be told in groans, not words, 
The very St. Bartholomew of birds ! 

The Summer came, and all the birds were dead ; 

The days were like hot coals ; the very groimd 
Was burned to ashes : in the orchards fed 

Myriads of caterpillars, and around 
The cultivated fields and garden-beds 

Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found 
No foe to check their march, till they had made 
The land a desert without leaf or shade. 

Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town. 
Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly 

Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun 
down 
The canker-worms iipon the passers-by, — • 

Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown. 
Who shook them off with just a little cry : 

They were the terror of each favorite walk, 

The endless theme of all the vUlage talk. 

The farmers grew impatient ; but a few 
Confessed their error, and would not complain ; 

For, after all, the best thing one can do, 
When it is raining, is to let it rain. 

Then they repealed the law, although they knew 
It would not call the dead to life again : 

As schoolboys, finding their mistake too late. 

Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate. 



24 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



That year in Killingworth the Autumn came 
Without the light of his majestic look, 

The wonder of the falling tongues of flame, 
The illumined pages of his Dooms-Day Book. 

A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame. 
And drowned themselves despairing in the brook. 

While the wild wind went moaning everywhere. 

Lamenting the dead children of the air. 

But the next Spring, a stranger sight was seen, 
A sight that never yet by bard was sung, 

As great a wonder as it would have been 
If some dumb animal had found a tongue : 

A wagon overarched with evergreen. 
Upon whose boughs were 'wicker cages hung. 

All full of singing-birds came down the street. 

Filling the air with music wild and sweet. 

From all the country round these birds were 
brought 

By order of the town, with anxious quest. 
And, loosened from their wicker prison, sought 

In woods and fields the places they loved best. 
Singing loud canticles, which many thought 

Were satires to the authorities addressed ; 
While others, listening in green lanes, averred 
Such lovely music never had been heard. 

But blither still and louder carolled they 
Upon the morrow, for they seemed to know 

It was the fair Almira's wedding-day ; 
And everywhere, around, above, below, 

When the Preceptor bore his bride away. 
Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow, 

And a new heaven bent over a new earth 

Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth. 

Henry Wadswokth Longfellow. 



Arethusa arose 

From her couch of snows 
In the Acroceraunian mountains, — 

From cloud and from crag 

With many a jag. 
Shepherding her bright fountains. 

She leapt down the rocks 

With her rainbow locks 



Streaming among the streams ; 

Her steps paved with green 

The downward ravine 
Which slopes to the western gleams, 

And, gliding and springing, 

She went, ever singing 
In murmurs as soft as sleep ; 

The Earth seemed to love her. 

And Heaven smiled above her. 
As she lingered towards the deep. 

Then Alpheus bold. 

On his glacier cold, 
With his trident the mountains strook 

And opened a chasm 

In the rocks ; with the spasm 
All Erymanthus shook. 

And the black south wind, 

It concealed behind 
The urns of the silent snow, 

And earthquake and thunder 

Did rend in sunder 
The bars of the springs below ; 

The beard and the hair 

Of the river-god were 
Seen through the torrent's sweep, 

As he followed the light 

Of the fleet nymph's flight 
To the brink of the Dorian deep. 

" Oh, save me ! Oh, guide me ! 

And bid the deep hide me, 
For he grasps me now by the hair ! " 

The loud Ocean heard. 

To its blue depth stirred, 
And divided at her prayer ; 

And under the water 

The Earth's white daughter 
Pled like a sunny beam ; 

Behind her descended 

Her billows, unblended 
With the brackish Dorian stream. 

Like a gloomy stain 

On the emerald main, 
Alpheus rushed behind, — 

As an eagle pursuing 

A dove to its ruin 
Down the streams of the cloudy wind. 



LITTLE STREAMS. 



25 



Under the bowers 

Where the ocean powers 
Sit on their pearled thrones ; 

Through the coral woods 

Of the weltering floods, 
Over heaps of unvalued stones ; 

Through the dim beams 

Which amid the streams 
Weave a network of colored light ; 

And under the caves, 

Where the shadowy waves 
Are as green as the forest's night — 

Outspeeding the shark, 

And the sword-fish dark, 
Under the ocean foam ; 

And up through the rifts 

Of the mountain cliffs 
They passed to their Dorian home. 

And now from their fountains 

In Enna's mountains, 
Down one vale where the morning basks 

Like friends once parted. 

Grown single-hearted. 
They ply their watery tasks. 

At sunrise they leap 

From their cradles steep 
In the cave of the shelving hill ; 

At noontide they flow 

Through the woods below, 
And the meadows of asphodel ; 

And at night they sleep 

In the rocking deep 
Beneath the Ortygian shore ; 

Like spirits that lie 

In the azure sky, 
When they love but live no more. 

Peect Btsshe Shelley. 



Cittle 0t«ttttr0. 

Little streams are light and shadow ; 
Flowing through the pasture meadow. 
Flowing by the green way-side, 
Through the forest dim and wide, 
Through the hamlet still and small — 
By the cottage, by the hall. 



By the min'd abbey still ; 
Turning here and there a mill, 
Bearing tribute to the river — 
Little streams, I love you ever. 

Summer music is there flowing. 
Flowering plants in them are growing ; 
Happy life is in them all. 
Creatures innocent and small ; 
Little birds come down to drink, 
Fearless of their leafy brink ; 
Noble trees beside them grow. 
Glooming them with branches low ; 
And between, the sunshine, glancing 
In their little waves, is dancing. 

Little streams have flowers a many, 
Beautiful and fair as any ; 
Typha strong, and green bur-reed ; 
Willow-herb, with cotton-seed ; 
Arrow-head, with eye of Jet ; 
And the water-violet. 
There the flowering-rush you meet. 
And the plumy meadow-sweet ; 
And, in places deep and stilly. 
Marble-like, the water-lily. 

Little streams, their voices cheery, 

Sound forth welcomes to the weary, 

Flowing on from day to day. 

Without stint and without stay ; 

Here, upon their flowery bank. 

In the old time pilgrims drank. 

Here have seen, as now, pass by, 

Eang-fisher, and dragon-fly ; 

Those bright things that have their dwelling, 

Where the little streams are welling. 

Down in valleys green and lowly, 
Murmuring not and gliding slowly ; 
Up in mountain-hollows wild, 
Fretting like a peevish child ; 
Through the hamlet, where all day 
In theii' waves the children play ; 
Running west, or running east. 
Doing good to man and beast — 
Always giving, weary never, 
Little streams, I love you ever. 

Maet Howitt. 



26 POEMS OF NATURE. 




The Water ! the Water ! 


a;i)c toatcr! ^\\z toater! 


Where I have happy been. 




And showered upon its bosom flowers 


The Water ! the Water ! 


Gulled from each meadow green ; 


The joyous brook for me, 


And idly hoped my life would be 


That tuneth through the quiet night 
Its ever-living glee. 


So crowned by love's idolatry. 


The Water ! the Water ! 


The Water ! the Water ! 


That sleepless, merry heart. 


My heart yet burns to think 


Which gurgles on unstintedly. 


How cool thy fountain sparkled forth. 


And loveth to impart. 


For parched lip to drink. 


To all around it, some small measure 


The Water ! the Water ! 


Of its own most perfect pleasure. 


Of mine own native glen ; 


The Water ! the Water ! 


The gladsome tongue I oft have heard. 


The gentle stream for me. 


But ne'er shall hear again, 


That gushes from the old gray stone, 


Though fancy fills my ear for aye 


Beside the alder-tree. 


With sounds that live so far away ! 


The Water ! the Water ! 




That ever-bubbling spring 


The Water ! the Water ! 


I loved and looked on while a child, 


The mild and glassy wave, 


In deepest wondering, — 


Upon whose broomy banks I've longed 


And asked it whence it came and went. 


To find my silent grave. 


And when its treasures would be spent. 


The Water ! the Water ! 




0, blest to me thou art ! 


The Water ! the Water ! 


Thus sounding in life's solitude 


The merry, wanton brook 


The music of my heart. 


That bent itself to pleasure me. 


And filling it, despite of sadness. 


Like mine old shepherd crook. 


With dreamings of depai-ted gladness. 


The Water ! the Water ! 




That sang so sweet at noon. 


The Water ! the Water ! 


And sweeter still all night, to win 


The mournful, pensive tone 


Smiles from the pale, proud moon, 


That whispered to my heart how soon 


And from the little fairy faces 


This weary life was done. 


That gleam in heaven's remotest places. 


The Water ! the Water ! 




That rolled so bright and free, 


The Water ! the Water ! 


And bade me mark how beautiful 


The dear and blessed thing. 


Was its soul's purity ; 
And how it glanced to heaven its wave. 


That aU day fed the little flowers 


On its banks blossoming. 


As, wandering on, it sought its grave. 


The Water ! the Water ! 






William Mother-well. 


That murmured in my ear 




Hymns of a saint-like piirity. 




That angels well might hear. 




And whisper in the gates of heaven, 




How meek a pilgrim had been "shriven. 


gong of tl}e Brook. 


The Water ! the Water ! 


I COME from haunts of coot and hern, 


Where I have shed salt tears, 


I make a sudden sally 


In loneliness and friendliness, 


And sparkle out among the fern. 


A thing of tender years. 


To bicker down a valley. 




TFTFTTE ]BIE(n)®M:c 



sojsra OF the brook 27 


By thirty hills I hurry down, 


I murmur under moon and stars 


Or slip between the ridges ; 


In brambly wildernesses ; 


By twenty thorps, a little town, 


I linger by my shingly bars ; 


And half a hundred bridges. 


I loiter round my cresses ; 


TUl last by Philip's farm I flow 


And out again I curve and flow 


To join the brimming river ; 


To join the brimming river ; 


For men may come and men may go, 


For men may come and men may go, 


But I go on for ever. 


But I go on for ever. 

Alfred Tenntson. 


1 chatter over stony ways. 




In little sharps and trebles ; 
1 bubble into eddying bays, 


®l]e duestion. 


I babble on the pebbles. 


I DREAJiED that, as I wandered by the way. 




Bare Winter was changed suddenly to Spring, 


With many a curve my banks I tret 


And gentle odors led my steps astray, 


By many a field and fallow, 
And many a fairy foreland set 
With wiUow-weed and mallow. 


Mixed with the sound of waters murmuring, 
Along a shelvy bank of turf, which lay 
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling 


1 chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river; 


Its green arms round the bosom of the stream. 
But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in a 
dream. 


For men may come and men may go, 




But I go on for ever. 


There grew pied wind-flowers and violets. 




Daisies— those pearled Arcturi of the earth, 


1 wind about, and in and out. 


The constellated flower that never sets ; 


With here a blossom sailing. 


Faint oxlips ; tender blue-bells, at whose birth 


And here and there a lusty trout. 


The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall flower that wets, 


And here and tliere a grayling, 


Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth. 




Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears. 


And here and there a foamy flake 


When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. 


Upon me, as I travel, 
Witli many a silvery waterbreak 
Above the golden gravel ; 


And in the warm hedge grew bush-eglantine, 
Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colored May ; 


And cherry-blossoms, and white caps whose wine 


And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river ; 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on for ever. 


Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day ; 
And wild roses, and ivy serpentine 

With its dark buds and leaves wandering astray ; 
And flowers azure, black and streaked with gold. 




Fairer than any wakened eyes behold. 


1 steal by lawns and grassy plots ; 


And nearer to the river's trembling edge, 


I sUde by hazel covers ; 


There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt 


I move the sweet forget-me-nots 


with white ; 


That grow for happy lovers. 


And starry river buds among the sedge 




And floating water-lilies, broad and bright. 


I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 


Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge 


Among my skimming swallows. 


With moonlight beams of their own watery light ; 


I make the netted sunbeam dance 


And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green 


Against my sandy shallows. 


As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. 



28 POEMS OF NATURE. 


Methought that of these visionary flowers 


Such is the fate of artless maid. 


I made a nosegay, bound in such a way 


Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! 


That the same hues which in their natural bowers 


By love's simplicity betrayed. 


Were mingled or opposed, the like array 


And guileless trust, 


Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours 


Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 


Within my hand ; and then, elate and gay, 


Low i' the dust. 


I hastened to the spot whence I had come. 




That I might there present it ! Oh to whom f 


Such is the fate of simple bard. 


Peect Btsshb Shelley. 


On life's rough ocean luckless starred ; 




Unskilful he to note the card 




Of prudent lore. 




Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 


^a a iHonntain ?Dai0g. 


And whelm him o'er ! 


ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN 




APRIL, 1786. 


Such fate to sufliering worth is given, 




Who long with wants and woes has striven, 


Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 


By human pride or cunning driven 


Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 


To misery's brink, 


For I maun crush amang the stoure 


Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, 


Thy slender stem : 


He, ruined, sink ! 


To spare thee now is past my power, 




Thou bonnie gem. 


Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 




That fate is thine — no distant date ; 


Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 


Stern ruin's ploughshare drives elate, 


The bonnie lark, companion meet, 


Pull on thy bloom. 


Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet 


Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight 


Wi' speclded breast, 


Shall be thy doom ! 


When upward-springing, blithe, to greet 


Egbert Burns. 


The purple east. 




Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 




Upon thy early, humble birth ; 


So tl)e Small (Hclaniime. 


Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 
Amid the storm — 


Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies ; 


Scarce reared above the parent earth 
Thy tender form. 


Let them live upon their praises ; 
Long as there's a sun that sets, 


Primroses will have their glory ; 


The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, 


Long as there are violets. 


High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield ; 


They will have a place in story : 


But thou, beneath the random bield , 


There's a flower that shall be mine, 


0' clod or stane. 


'Tis the little Celandine. 


Adorns the histie stibble-field, 




Unseen, alane. 


Eyes of some men travel far 




For the finding of a star ; 


There, in thy scanty mantle clad, * 


Up and down the heavens they go. 


Thy snawie bosom sunward spread. 


Men that keep a mighty rout ! 


Thou lifts thy unassuming head 


I'm as great as they, I trow, 


In humble guise ; 


Since the day I found thee out. 


But now the share uptears thy bed, 


Little flower ! I'll make a stir. 


And low thou lies ! 


Like a sage astronomer. 



TO TEE SMALL CELANDINE. 29 


Modest, yet withal an elf 


Serving at my heart's command. 


Bold, and lavish of thyself ; 


Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 


Since we needs must first have met, 


I will sing, as doth behoove. 


I have seen thee, high and low, 


Hymns in praise of what I love ! 


Thirty years or more, and yet 


William Wordsworth. 


'Twas a face I did not know ; 




Thou hast now, go where I may, 




Fifty greetings in a day. 


QCo biolets. 




Ere a leaf is on a bush. 


Welcome, maids of honor. 


In the time before the thinish 


You do bring 
In the Spring, 
And wait upon her. 


Has a thought about her nest. 
Thou wilt come with half a call, 


Spreading out thy glossy breast 


Like a careless prodigal ; 


She has virgins many, 


Telling tales about the sun. 


Fresh and fair ; 


Wlien we've little warmth, or none. 


Yet you are 




More sweet than any. 


Poets, Tain men in their mood. 




Travel with the multitude ; 


Y'are the Maiden Posies, 


Never heed them ; I aver 


And so graced. 
To be placed. 


That they all are wanton wooers ; 


But the thrifty cottager. 


'Fore damask roses. 


Who stirs little out of doors. 




Joys to spy thee near at home ; 


Yet though thus respected. 


Spring is coming, thou art come ! 


By and by 




Ye do lie. 


Comfort have thou of thy merit. 


Poor girls, neglected. 


Kindly, unassuming spirit ! 


EOBERT HERHICK. 


Careless of thy neighborhood, 




Thou dost show thy pleasant face 




On the moor, and in the wood. 




In the lane ; there's not a place, 


®o |)ritnroses. 


Howsoever mean it be. 




But 'tis good enough for thee. 


FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. 




Why do ye weep, sweet babes ? Can tears 


Ill befall the yellow flowers. 


Speak grief in you. 


Children of the flaring Hours ! 


Who were but born 


Buttercups, that will be seen, 


Just as the modest morn 


Whether we will see or no ; 


Teemed her refreshing dew ? 


Others, too, of lofty mien ; 


Alas ! ye have not known that shower 


They have done as worldlings do. 


That mars a flower ; 


Taken praise that should be thine, 


Nor felt th' unkind 


Little, humble Celandine. 


Breath of a blasting wind ; 




Nor are ye worn with years ; 


Prophet of delight and mirth, 


Or warped, as we. 


Ill-requited upon earth, 


Who think it strange to see 


Herald of a mighty band. 


Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young. 


Of a joyous train ensuing, 


Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. 



30 POEMS OF NATURE. 


Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known 


Stay, stay 


The reason' why 


Until the hastening day 


Ye droop and weep. 


Has run 


Is it for want of sleep, 


But to the even-song ; 


Or childish lullaby ? 


And, having prayed together, we 


Or, that ye have not seen as yet 


Will go with you along. 


The violet f 




Or brought a kiss 


We have short time to stay as you. 


From that sweetheart to this? 


We have as short a Spring ; 


No, no ; this sorrow, shown 


As quick a growth to meet decay, 


By your tears shed, 


As you, or any thing : 


Would have this lecture read : — 


We die, 


" That things of greatest, so of meanest worth. 


As your hours do ; and dry 


Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought 


Away 


forth." 


Like to the summer's rain. 


KOBERT HeRRICK. 


Or as the pearls of morning dew, 




Ne'er to be found again. 




Robert Herrick. 


So Slossoms. 




Pair pledges of a fruitful tree, 


SDflffoMIs. 


Why do ye fall so fast? 




. Your date is not so past 


I WANDERED, loncly as a cloud 


But you may stay yet here awhile 


That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 


To blush and gently smile, 


When all at once I saw a crowd — 


And go at last. 


A host of golden daffodils 




Beside the lake, beneath the trees. 


What ! were ye born to be 


Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 


An hour or half's delight. 




And so to bid good-night ? 
'Tis pity Nature brought ye forth. 
Merely to show your worth. 
And lose you quite. 


Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way. 

They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay : 

Ten thousand saw I, at a glance, 


But you are lovely leaves, where we 


Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 


May read how soon things have 


The waves beside them danced, but they 


Their end, though ne'er so brave ; 


Outdid the sparkling waves in glee ; 


And, after they have shown their pride 


A poet could not but be gay. 


Like you awhile, they glide 


In such a jocund company ; 


Into the grave. 


I gazed, and gazed, but little thought 


EOBBKT HeRRICK. 


What wealth the show to me had brought. 




For oft, when on my couch I lie. 


®o HJaffoMls. 


In vacant or in pensive mood, 




They flash upon that inward eye 


Fair dafEodils ! we weep to see 


Which is the bliss of solitude. 


You haste away so soon ; 


And then my heart with pleasure fills. 


As yet the early-rising sun 


And dances with the daffodils. 


Has not attained his noon : 


William Wordsworth. 



TRAILING ARBUTUS. 



31 



trailing ^rbutua. 

Darlings of the forest ! 

Blossoming, alone, 
Wlien Earth's grief is sorest 
For her Jewels gone — 
Ere the last snow-drift melts, your tender buds 
have blown. 

Tinged with color faintly, 

Like the morning sky, 
Or, more pale and saintly. 
Wrapped in leaves ye lie — 
Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity. 

There the wild wood-robin, 

Hymns your solitude ; 
And the rain comes sobbing 
Through the budding wood, 
While the low south wind sighs, but dare not be 
more rude. 

Were your pure lips fashioned 

Out of air and dew. 
Starlight unimpassioned, 
Dawn's most tender hue. 
And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for 
you? 

Fairest and most lonely. 
Prom the world apart ; 
Made for beauty only, 
Veiled from Nature's heart 
With such unconscious grace as makes the dream 
of Art ! 

Were not mortal sorrow 

An immortal shade. 
Then would I to-morrow 
Such a flower be made, 
And live in the dear woods where my lost child- 
hood played. Eose Terby Cooke. 



LINES ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER 1 

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, 
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods 
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook. 
To please the desert and the sluggish brook : 



The purple petals fallen in the pool 

Made the black waters with their beauty gay — 
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool. 

And court the flower that cheapens his array. 
Rhodora ! if the sages ask thee why 
This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, 
Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing, 
Then beauty is its own excuse for being. 

Why thou wert there, rival of the rose ! 
I never thought to ask ; I never knew. 

But in my simple ignorance suppose 
The selfsame Power that brought me there, brought 
you. Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



Nature. 

The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by. 
Because my feet find measure with its call ; 
The birds know when the friend they love is nigh, 
For I am known to them, both great and small. 
The flower that on the lonely hill-side grows 
Expects me there when Spring its bloom has given ; 
And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows. 
And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven ; 
For he who with his Maker walks aright. 
Shall be their lord as Adam was before ; 
His ear shall catch each sound with new delight, 
Each object wear the dress that then it wore ; 
And he, as when erect in soul he stood, 
Hear from his Father's lips that all is good. 

Jones Very. 



Song of Sirring. 

Laud the first Spring daisies ; 
Chant aloud their praises ; 
Send the children up 
To the high hill's top ; 
Tax not the strength of their young hands 
To increase your lands. 
Gather the primroses. 
Make handf uls into posies ; 

Take them to the little girls who are at work in mills : 
Pluck the violets blue, — 
Ah, pluck not a few ! 

Knowest thou what good thoughts from Heaven 
the violet instils ? 



32 P0E3IS OF NATURE. 


Give the chDdren holidays, 


Dwell, but with each other keep society : 


(And let these be jolly days), 


And with a simple piety 


Grant freedom to the children in this joyous 


Are ready to be woven into garlands for the good. 


Spring ; 


Or, upon Summer earth. 


Better men, hereafter, 


To die, in virgin worth ; 


Shall we have, for laughter 


Or to be stre\vn before the bride, 


Freely shouted to the. woods, till all the echoes 


And the bridegroom, by her side. 


ring. 




Send the children up 


Come forth on Sundays ; 


To the high hill's top. 


Come forth on Mondays ; 


Or deep into the wood's recesses, 


Come forth on any day ; 


To woo Spring's caresses. 


ChUdren, come forth to play : — 




Worship the God of Nature in your childhood ; 


See, the birds together, 


Worship Him at your tasks with best endeavor ; 


In this splendid weather. 


Worship Him in your sports ; worship him ever ; 


Worship God (for he is God of birds as well as 


Worship Him in the wildwood ; 


men): 


Worship Him amidst the flowers ; 


And each feathered neighbor 


In the greenwood bowers ; 


Enters on his labor, — 


Pluck the buttercups, and raise 


Sparrow, robin, redpoll, finch, the linnet, and the 


Tour voices in His praise ! 


wren. 


Edward Youl. 


As the year advances. 




Trees their naked branches 




Clothe, and seek your pleasure in their green ap- 
parel. 


®l)c I3room iTlomer. 


Insect and wild beast 


Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom, 


Keep no Lent, but feast ; 


The ancient poet sung it, 


Spring breathes upon the earth, and their joy's in- 


And dear it is on summer days 


creased, 


To lie at rest among it. 


And the rejoicing birds break forth in one loud 




carol. 


I know the realms where people say 




The flowers have not their fellow ; 


Ah, come and woo the Spring ; 


I know where they shine out like suns, 


List to the birds that sing ; 


The crimson and the yeUow. 


Pluck the primroses ; pluck the violets ; 




Pluck the daisies. 


I know where ladies live enchained 


Sing their praises ; 


In luxury's silken fetters. 


Friendship with the flowers some noble thought 


And flowers as bright as glittering gems 


begets. 


Are used for written letters. 


Come forth and gather these sweet elves. 




(More witching are they than the fays of old), 


But ne'er was flower so fair as this, 


Come forth and gather them yourselves ; 


In modern days or olden ; 


Learn of these gentle flowers whose worth is more 


It groweth on its nodding stem 


than gold. « 


Like to a garland golden. 


Come, come into the wood ; 


And aU about my mother's door 


Pierce into the bowers 


Shine out its glittering bushes, 


Of these gentle flowers. 


And down the glen, where clear as light 


Which, not in solitude 


The mountain-water gushes. 



THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. 



33 



Take all the rest ; but give me this, 
And the bird that nestles in it ; 

I love it, for it loves the Broom — 
The green and yellow linnet. 

Well, call the rose the queen of flowers, 

And boast of that of Sharon, 
Of lilies like to marble cups, 

And the golden rod of Aaron : 

I care not how these flowers may be 

Beloved of man and woman ; 
The Broom it is the flower for me, 

That groweth on the common. 

Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom, 

The ancient poet sung it, 
And dear it is on summer days 

To lie at rest among it. 

Mary Howitt. 



@ri)e jBrotnble iFloro^r. 

Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows, 

Wild bramble of the brake I 
So, put thou forth thy small white rose ; 

I love it for his sake. 
Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow 

O'er all the fragrant bowers. 
Thou needst not be ashamed to show 

Thy satin-threaded flowers ; 

For dull the eye, the heart is dull, 

That cannot feel how fair. 
Amid all beauty beautiful. 

Thy tender blossoms are. 
How delicate thy gauzy frill. 

How rich thy branchy stem. 
How soft thy voice when woods are still. 

And thou sing'st hymns to them ; 

While silent showers are falling slow. 

And, 'mid the general hush, 
A sweet air lifts the little bough, 

Lone whispering through the bush ! 
The primrose to the grave is gone ; 

The hawthorn flower is dead ; 
The violet by the mossed gray stone 

Hath laid her weary head ; 



But thou, wild bramble, back dost bring. 

In all their beauteous power. 
The fresh green days of life's fair Spring, 

And boyhood's blossomy hour. 
Scorned bramble of the brake, once more 

Thou bidd'st me be a boy. 
To gad with thee the woodlands o'er. 

In freedom and in joy. 

Ebenezer Elliott. 



@[|)e JBrier. 

My brier that smelledst sweet. 
When gentle Spring's first heat 
Ran through thy quiet veins ; 
Thou that couldst injure none. 
But wouldst be left alone, 
xVlone thou leavest me, and nought of thine remains. 

What ! hath no poet's lyre 
O'er thee, sweet-breathing brier. 

Hung fondly, ill or well f 
And yet, methinks, with thee 
A poet's sj'mpathy. 
Whether in weal or woe, in life or death, might 
dwell. 

Hard usage both must bear. 

Few hands your youth will rear. 

Few bosoms cherish you ; 

Your tender prime must bleed 

Ere you are sweet ; but, freed 

From life, you then are prized ; thus prized are 

poets too. 

Waltek Savage Landob. 



Sto tlje iUonbelion. 

Deae common flower, that grow'st beside the 
way. 
Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold ! 

First pledge of blithesome May, 
Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold — 

High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they 
An Eldorado in the grass have found, 

Which not the rich earth's ample round 
May match in wealth ! — thou art more dear to me 
Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. 



34 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Gold such as thiue ne'er drew the Spanish 
prow 
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas ; 

Nor wrinlded the lean brow 
Of age to rob the lover's heart of ease. 
'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now 
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand ; 
Though most hearts never understand 
To take it at God's value, but pass by 
The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. 

Thou art my tropics and mine Italy ; 
To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ; 

The eyes thou givest me 
Are in the heart, and heed not space or time : 

Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee 
Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment 
In the white lily's breezy tent, 
His conquered Sybaris, than I, when first 
From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. 

Then think I of deep shadows on the grass ; 
Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, 

Where, as the breezes pass. 
The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways ; 
Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass. 
Or whiten in the wind ; of waters blue. 

That from the distance sparkle through 
Some woodland gap ; and of a sky above, 
Wliere one white cloud Mke a stray lamb doth 
move. 

My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with 
thee; 
The sight of thee calls back the robin's song. 

Who, from the dark old tree 
Beside the door, sang clearly all day long ; 

And I, secure in childish piety. 
Listened as if I heard an angel sing 

With news from heaven, which he did bring 
Fresh every day to my untainted ears, 
When bu'ds and flowers and I were happy 
peers. 

How like a prodigal doth nature seem. 
When thou, for all thy gold, so common art ! 

Thou teaehest me to deem 
More sacredly of every human heart, 

Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam 



Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show. 
Did we but pay the love we owe, 
And with a child's undoubting wisdom look 
On all these living pages of God's book. 

James Russell Lowell. 



^\\t biokt. 



FAINT, delicious, spring-time violet, 

Thine odor, like a key. 
Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let 

A thought of sorrow free. 

The breath of distant fields upon my brow 

Blows through that open door 
The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low. 

And sadder than of yore. 

It comes afar, from that beloved place, 

And that beloved hour. 
When life hung ripening in love's golden grace, 

Like grapes above a bower. 

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass ; 

The lark sings o'er my head. 
Drowned in the sky — pass, ye visions, pass ! 

I would that I were dead ! 

Why hast thou opened that forbidden door 

From which I ever flee ? 
vanished Joy ! Love, that art no more, 

Let my vexed spirit be ! 

violet ! thy odor through my brain 

Hath searched, and stung to grief 

This sunny day, as if a curse did stain 
Thy velvet leaf. 

WlLLLiM WeTMOKE StORT. 



Go, lovely rose ! 
Tell her that wastes her time and me 

That now she knows, 
When I resemble her to thee. 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 



CHORUS OF FLOWERS. 35 


Tell her that's young, 


The dear lumpish baby. 


And shuns to have her graces spied, 


Humming with the May-bee, 


That hadst thou sprung 


Hails us with his bright star, stumbling through 


In deserts where no men abide, 


the grass ; 


Thou must have uncommended died. 


The honey-dropping moon. 




On a night in June, 


Small is the worth 


Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the bride- 


Of beauty from the light retired ! 


groom pass. 


Bid her come forth — 


Age, the withered dinger. 


Suffer herself to be desired. 


On us mutely gazes, 


And not blush so to be admired. 


And wraps the thought of his last bed in his child- 


\ 


hood's daisies. 


Then die, that she 




The common fate of all things rare 


See (and scorn all duller 


May read in thee — 
How small a part of time they share 


Taste) how Heaven loves color ; 
How great Nature, clearly, Joys in red and 


That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 


green ; 




What sweet thoughts she thinks 


Edmund Waller. 


Of violets and pinks. 




And a thousand flushing hues made solely to be 




seen ; 

See her whitest lilies 


Olliorus of iriotDers. 


Chill the silver showers, 




And what a red mouth is her rose, the woman of 


We are the sweet flowers, 


her flowers. 


Born of sunny showers. 




(Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty 


Uselessness divinest, 


saith ;) 


Of a use the finest. 


Utterance, mute and bright, 


Fainteth us, the teachers of the end of use ; 


Of some unknown delight. 


Travelers, weary-eyed. 


We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple 


Bless us, far and wide ; 


breath : 


Unto sick and prisoned thoughts we give sudden 


All who see us love us — 


truce ; 


We befit all places ; 


Not a poor town window 


Unto sorrow we give smiles, and unto graces, 


Loves its sickliest planting, 


races. 


But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian 




vaunting. 


Mark our ways, how noiseless 




All, and sweetly voiceless. 


Sagest yet the uses 


Though the March-winds pipe to make our passage 


Mixed with our sweet juices. 


clear ; 


Whether man or May-fly profit of the balm ; 


Not a whisper tells 


As fair fingers healed 


Where our small seed dwells. 


Knights from the olden field. 


Nor is known the moment green when our tips 


We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest 


appear. 


calm. 


We thread the earth in silence. 


Even the terror, poison. 


In silence build our bowers — 


Hath its plea for blooming ; 


And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top, 


Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the 


sweet flowers. 


presuming. 



36 POEMS OF NATURE. 


And oh ! our sweet soul-taker, 


Tears of Phoebus — missings 


That thief, the honey-maker, 


Of Cytherea's kissings, 


What a house hath he, by the thymy glen ! 


Have in us been found, and wise men find them 


In his talking rooms 


still ; 


How the feasting fumes 


Drooping grace unfurls 


Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of 


Still Hyacinthus' curls, 


men ! 


And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill ; 


The butterflies come aping 


Thy red lip, Adonis, 


Those fine thieves of ours, 


StiU is wet with morning ; 


And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled flow- 


And the step that bled for thee the rosy brier 


ers with flowers. 


adorning. 


See those tops, how beauteous ! 


Oh ! true things are fables, 


What fair service duteous 


Pit for sagest tables, 


Round some idol waits, as on their lord the 


And the flowers are true things — yet no fables 


Nine. 


they. 


Elfin court 'twould seem, 


Fables "were not more 


And taught, perchance, that dream 


Bright, nor loved of yore ; 


Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon nights 


Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by every old 


divine. 


pathway. 


To expound such wonder 


Grossest hand can test us. 


Human speech avails not. 


Fools may prize us never, 


Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory 


Yet we rise, and rise, and rise — marvels sweet for 


exhales not. 


ever. 


Think of all these treasures, 


Who shall say that flowers 


Matchless works and pleasures, 


Dress not heaven's own bowers ? 


Every one a marvel, more than thought can say. 


Who its love, without us, can fancy — or sweet floor ? 


Then think in what bright showers 


Who shall even dare 


We thicken fields and bowers, 


To say we sprang not there. 


And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton 


And came not down, that Love might bring one 


May; 


piece of heaven the more ? 


Think of the mossy forests 


pray believe that angels 


By the bee-birds haunted, 


From these blue dominions 


And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as 


Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their 


enchanted. 


golden pinions. 




Leigh Hunt. 


Trees themselves are ours ; 




Fruits are born of flowers ; 


iTIotDcrs. 


Peach, and roughest nut, were blossoms in the 


Spring ; 


. Spake fuU well, in language quaint and olden. 


The lusty bee knows well 


One who dwelleth by the castled Ehine, 


The news, and comes pell-mell. 


When he called the flowers, so blue and golden. 


And dances in the gloomy thicks with darksome 


Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. 


antheming ; 




Beneath the very burden 


Stars they are, wherein we read our histoiy. 


Of planet-pressing ocean, 


As astrologers and seers of eld ; 


We wash our smiling checks in peace — a thought 


Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery. 


for meek devotion. 


Like the burning stars which they beheld. 



FLOWERS. 



37 



Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, 
God hath written in those stars above ; 

But not less in the bright flowerets under us 
Stands the revelation of his love. 

Bright and glorious is that revelation, 
Writ all over this great world of ours. 

Making evident our own creation, 
In these stars of earth, these golden flowers. 

And the poet, faithful and far-seeing. 
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part 

Of the self-same, universal being 
Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. 

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining. 
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day. 

Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, 
Buds that open only to decay ; 

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, 
Flaunting gayly in the golden light ; 

Large desires, with most uncertain issues, 
Tender wishes, blossoming at night ; 

These in flowers and men are more than seeming ; 

Workings are they of the self-same powers 
Which the poet, in no idle dreaming, 

Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 

Everywhere about us are they glowing — 
Some, like stars, to tell us Spring is born ; 

Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowmg. 
Stand, like Ruth, amid the golden corn ; 

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, 
And in Summer's green emblazoned field, 

But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, 
In the centre of his brazen shield ; 

Not alone in meadows and green alleys. 
On the mountain-top, and by the brink 

Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, 
Wliere the slaves of Nature stoop to drink ; 

Fot alone in her vast dome of glory. 
Not on graves of bird and beast alone. 

But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, 
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone ; 



In the cottage of the rudest peasant ; 

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers. 
Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 

Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers. 

In all places, then, and in all seasons, 
Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, 

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons. 
How akin they are to human things. 

And with childlike, credulous affection. 
We behold their tender buds expand — 

Emblems of our own great resurrection, 
Emblems of the bright and better land. 

Henkt Wadstvokth Longfellow. 



^gmn to tl)e Sioxatxs. 

Dat-staks ! that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle 

From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation. 
And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle 
As a libation ! 

Ye matin worshippers ! who bending lowly 
Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye, 
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
Incense on high ! 

Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty 

The floor of Nature's temple tesselate. 
What numerous emblems of instructive duty 
Your forms create ! 

'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that 
swingeth 
And tolls its perfume on the passing air. 
Makes sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
A call to prayer. 

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column 

Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 
But to that fane, most catholic and solemn. 
Which God had planned : 

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 
Wliose quenchless lamps the sun and moon sup- 
ply— 
Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, 
Its dome the sky. 



38 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



There, as in solitude and shade I wander 
Through the green aisles, or, stretched upon the 
sod, 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God, 

Your voiceless lips, Flowers, are living preach- 
ers. 
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
Fi'om loneliest nook. 

Floral apostle ! that in dewy splendor 

" Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," 
may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender, 
Your lore sublime ! 

" Thou wert not, Solomon ! in all thy glory. 

Arrayed," the lilies cry, " in robes like ours ; 
How vain your grandeur ! Ah, how transitory 
Are human flowers ! " 

In the sweet-scented pictures, Heavenly Artist ! 
With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread 
haU, 
What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
Of love to all ! 

Not useless are ye. Flowers, though made for 
pleasure : 
Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night. 
From every source your sanction bids me treasure 
Harmless delight. 

Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary 

For such a world of thought could furnish scope ? 
Each fading calyx a memento mori. 
Yet fount of hope. 

Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection ! 

Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, 
Ye are to me a type of resurrection, 
And second birth. 

Were I, God, in churchless lands remaining, 

Par from all voice of teachers or divines. 
My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining. 
Priests, sermons, shrines ! 

HoEACE Smith. 



So tl)c Mglitingale. 

Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray 
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still. 
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, 

While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. 

Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day, 
First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, 
Portend success in love. Oh, if Jove's will 

Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, 

Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate 
Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh ; 

As thou from year to year hast sung too late 
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why. 

Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, 
Both them I serve, and of their train am I. 

John Milton. 



^Ibbress to tl^c J^'igljtingale. 

As it fell upon a day. 

In the meri-y month of May, 

Sitting in a pleasant shade 

Which a grove of myrtles made, 

Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, 

Trees did grow, and plants did spring; 

Every thing did banish moan. 

Save the nightingale alone. 

She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 

Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn ; 

And there sung the dolefull'st ditty 

That to hear it was great pity. 

Fie, fie, fie ! now would she cry ; 

Teru, teru, by-and-by ; 

That, to hear her so complain, 

Scarce I could from tears refrain ; 

For her griefs, so lively shown, 

Made me think upon mine own. 

Ah ! (thought I) thou moum'st in vain ; 

None takes pity on thy pain ; 

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee ; 

Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee ; 

King Pandion, he is dead ; 

All thy friends are lapped in lead : 

All thy fellow-birds do sing. 

Careless of thy sorrowing ! 

Whilst as fickle Fortime smiled, 

Thou and I were both beguiled, 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 



39 



Every one that flatters thee 

Is no friend in misery. 

Words are easy, like the wind ; 

Faithful friends are hard to find. 

Every man will be thy friend 

Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend ; 

But if stores of crowns be scant, 

No man will supply thy want. 

If that one be prodigal. 

Bountiful they will him call ; 

And with such-like flattering, 

" Pity but he were a king." 

If he be addict to vice, 

Quickly him they will entice ; 

But if Fortune once do frown, 

Then farewell his great renown : 

They that fawned on him before. 

Use his company no more. 

He that is thy friend indeed, 

He will help thee in thy need ; 

If thou sorrow he will weep, 

If thou wake he cannot sleep. 

Thus, of every grief in heart. 

He with thee doth bear a part. 

These are certain signs to know 

Faithful friend from flattering foe. 

KiCHABD BABNFIELD. 



®bc t0 a Mgljtingflle. 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk ; 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-ward had sunk. 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot. 

But being too happy in thy happiness, 
Tliat thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of Summer in full-throated ease. 

Oh for a draught of vintage that hath been 
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, 

Tasting of Flora and the country green. 
Dance, and Proven9al song, and sun-burned 
mirth! 

Oh for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 



With beaded bubbles winking at the brim. 
And purple-stained mouth — 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen. 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known — 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret ; 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; 
Where palsy shakes a few sad, last gray hairs ; 

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and 
dies; 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs ; 

Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 

Away ! away ! for I wUl fly to thee ! 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But on the viewless wings of poesy. 

Though the duU brain perplexes and retards ; 
Already with thee tender is the night. 

And haply the queen-moon is on her throne. 
Clustered around by all her starry fays ; 
But here there is no light. 

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy 
ways. 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet. 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs ; 
But, in embalmed darkness guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild : 

White hawthorn and the pastoral eglantine ; 
Fast-fading violets, covered up in leaves ; 
And mid-May's oldest child. 

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. 
The murmurous haunt of bees on summer eves. 

Darkling I listen ; and for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme. 

To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die. 

To cease upon the midnight, with no pain. 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad, 
In such an ecstasy ! 

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 



40 POEMS OF NATURE. 


Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird ! 


Dost thou again peruse, 


N"o hungry generations tread thee down ; 


With hot cheeks and seared eyes. 


The voice I hear this passing night was heard 


The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame ? 


In ancient days by emperor and clown. 


Dost thou once more essay 


Perhaps the self -same song that found a path 


Thy flight ; and feel come over thee, 


Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for 


Poor fugitive, the feathery change ; 


home, 


Once more ; and once more make resound, 


She stood in tears amid the alien corn : 


With love and hate, triumph and agony, 


The same that oft-times hath 


Lone Daulis, and the high Cephisian vale ? 


Charmed magic casements opening on the 




foam 


Listen, Eugenia, 


Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn. 


How thick the bursts come crowding through the 




leaves ! 


Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell. 


Again — thou hearest! 


To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! 


Eternal passion ! 


Adieu ! the Fancy can not cheat so well 


Eternal pain ! 


As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 


Matthew Arnold. 


Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 


" 


Past the near meadows, over the still stream. 




UlJ the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades: 


8[l)e Mg I) ting ale. 


Was it a vision or a waking dream ? 


No cloud, no relict of the sunken day 


Fled is that music — do I wake or sleep? 


Distinguishes the West ; no long thin slip 


JoHH Keats. 


Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. 




Come, we wDl rest on this old mossy bridge ; 




You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, 


|)l)ilomela. 


But hear no murmuring ; it flows silently 


O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still ; 


Hark ! ah, the Nightingale ! 


A balmy night ! and though the stars be dim, 


The tawny-throated ! 


Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 


Hark ! from that moonlit cedar what a burst ! 


That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 


"What triumph ! hark — what pain ! 


A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 


wanderer from a Grecian shore. 


And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song — 


Still — after many years, in distant lands — 


" Most musical, most melancholy " bird ! 


Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain 


A melancholy bird ! Oh, idle thought ! 


That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world 


In Nature tliere is nothing melancholy. 


pain — 


But some night-wandering man, whose heart was 


Say, wUl it never heal ? 


pierced 


And can this fragrant lawn, 


With the remembrance of a grievous wrong. 


With its cool trees, and night, 


Or slow distemper, or neglected love. 


And the sweet, tranquil Thames, 


(And so, poor wretch ! filled all things with him- 


And moonshine, and the dew, 


self. 


To thy racked heart and brain 


And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 


Afford no balm ? ^ 


Of his own sorrow) — he, and such as he. 




First named these notes a melancholy strain. 


Dost thou to-niglit behold, 


And many a poet echoes the conceit — 


Here, through the moonlight on this English 


Poet who hath been building up the rhyme 


grass, 


When he had better far have stretched his limbs 


The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild f 


Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 



41 



By sun or moonlight ; to the influxes 
Of shapes, and sounds, and shifting elements, 
Surrendering his whole spirit ; of his song 
And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame 
Should share in Nature's immortality — 
A venerable thing ! — and so his song 
Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself 
Be loved like Nature ! But 'twill not be so ; 
And youths and maidens most poetical. 
Who lose the deepening twilights of the Spring 
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still, 
Full of meek sympathy, must heave their sighs 
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 

My friend, and thou, our sister ! we have learnt 
A different lore : we may not thus profane 
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 
And joyance ! 'Tis the merry Nightingale 
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 
As he were fearful that an April night 
Would be too short for him to utter forth 
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul 
Of all its music ! 

And I know a grove 
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 
Which the great lord inhabits not ; and so 
This grove is wild with tangling underwood ; 
And the trim walks are broken \ip ; and grass, 
Thin grass and kingcups grow within the paths. 
But never elsewhere in one place 1 knew 
So many nightingales. And far and near. 
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove. 
They answer and provoke each other's song, 
With skirmish and capricious passagings. 
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug. 
And one low piping sound more sweet than 

all — 
Stirring the air with such a harmony. 
That should you close your eyes, you might 

almost 
Forget it Avas not day ! On moon-lit bushes. 
Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed. 
You may perchance behold them on the twigs, 
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright 

and full. 
Glistening, while many a glowworm in the shade 
Lights lip her love-torch. 



A most gentle maid, 
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve, 
(Even like a lady vowed and dedicate 
To something more than Nature in the grove,) 
Glides through the pathways — she knows aU their 

notes. 
That gentle maid ! and oft, a moment's space, 
Wliat time the moon was lost behind a cloud, 
Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the moon, 
Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky 
With one sensation, and these wakeful birds 
Have aU burst forth in choral minstrelsy, 
As if some sudden gale had swept at once 
A hundred airy harps ! And she hath watched 
Many a nightingale perched giddily 
On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze. 
And to that motion tune his wanton song. 
Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head. 

Farewell, warbler ! till to-morrow eve ; 
And you, my friends ! farewell, a short farewell ! 
We have been loitering long and pleasantly. 
And now for our dear homes. — That strain 

again ! 
Pull fain it would delay me ! My dear babe, 
Who, capable of no articulate sound. 
Mars all things with his imitative lisp. 
How he would place his hand beside his ear, 
His little hand, the small forefinger up. 
And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise 
To make him Nature's playmate. He knows well 
The evening-star ; and once when he awoke 
In most distressful mood, (some inward pain 
Had made up that strange thing, an infant's 

dream,) 
I hurried \vith him to our orchard-plot. 
And he beheld the moon ; and, hushed at once. 
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently. 
While his fair eyes, that swarm with undropped 

tears. 
Did glitter in the yellow moonbeam ! Well ! — 
It is a father's tale ; but if that Heaven 
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up 
Familiar with these songs, that with the night 
He may associate Joy. — Once more, farewell, 
Sweet Nightingale ! Once more, my friends ! fare- 
well. 

Samuel Tatlok Coleridge. 



42 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



®l)e Nigljtingale's ?D£pattnre. 

Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu I 

Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year ! 
Ah ! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, 

And pour thy music on "the night's dull 
ear." 
Whether on Spring thy wandering flights await, 

Or whether silent in our groves you dwell. 
The pensive Muse shall own thee for her mate. 

And still protect the song she loves so well. 
With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide 

Through the long brake that shades thy mossy 
nest; 
And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide 

The gentle bird who sings of pity best : 
For still thy voice shall soft affections move. 
And still be dear to sorrow, and to love ! 

Chaelotte Smith. 



®o a tOnterfotol. 

Whither, 'midst falling dew. 
While glow the heavens with the last steps of 

day, 
Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 

Thy solitary waj^ ? 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky. 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seekst thoii the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide. 
Or where the rocking biUows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean side ? 

There is a power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — 
The desert and illimitable air, — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. ^ 

All day thy wings have fanned. 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere. 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 

Though the dark night is near. 



And soon that toil shall end ; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall 
bend. 

Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 

And shall not soon depart. 

He who, from zone to zone. 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain 

flight. 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 
Win lead my steps aright. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



ai)^ boke of tl)e (?5ras3. 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 

By the dusty roadside, 

On the sunny hiU-side, 

Close by the noisy brook, 

In every shady nook, 
I come creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere ; 

All around the open door, 

Where sit the aged poor ; 

Here where the children play. 

In the bright and merry May, 
I come creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 

In the noisy city street 

My pleasant face you'll meet, 

Cheering the sick at heart 

Toiling his busy part — 
Silently creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 
You cannot see me coming. 
Nor hear my low sweet humming ; 
For in the starry night, 
And the glad morning light, 
I come quietly creeping everywhere. 



JULY. 43 


Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 


Are steadfast, and as hea%'y seem 


More welcome than the flowers 


As stones beneath them in the stream. 


In Summer's pleasant hours : 




The gentle cow is glad, 


Hawkweed and groundsel's fanny downs 


And the merry bii-d not sad, 


Unruffled keep their seedy crowns ; 


To see me creeping, creeping everywhere. 


And in the over-heated air 




Not one light thing is floating there. 


Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 


Save that to the earnest eye 


When you're numbered with the dead 


The restless heat seems twittering by. 


In your still and narrow bed. 




In the happy Spring I'll come 


Noon swoons beneath the heat it made, 


And deck your silent home — 


And flowers e'en within the shade ; 


Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. 


Until the sun slopes in the west. 




Like weary traveller, glad to rest 


Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 


On pillowed clouds of many hues. 


My humble song of praise 


Then Nature's voice its joy renews. 


Most joyfully I raise 




To Him at whose command 


And checkered field and grassy plain 


I beautify the land. 


Hum with their summer songs again, 


Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. 


A requiem to the day's decline, 


Sabah Robebts. 


Whose setting sunbeams coolly shine 




As welcome to day's feeble powers 




As falling dews to thirsty flowers. 


lulg. 


John Claee. 


Loud is the Summer's busy song. 




The smallest breeze can find a tongue; 


iHibsumntcr. 


While insects of each tiny size 




Grow teasing with their melodies. 


Around this lovely valley rise 


Till noon burns with its blistering breath 


The purple hills of Paradise. 


Around, and day lies still as death. 






0, softly on yon banks of haze 


The busy noise of man and brute 


Her rosy face the Summer lays ! 


Is on a sudden lost and mute ; 




Even the brook that leaps along. 


Becalmed along the azure sky 


1 O' 

Seems weary of its bubbling song. 


The argosies of cloudland lie. 


And, so soft its waters creep. 


Whose shores, with many a shining rift, 


Tu-ed silence sinks in sounder sleep. 


Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift. 


The cricket on its bank is dumb ; 
The very flies forget to hum ; 


Through all the long midsummer day 
The meadow sides are sweet with hay. 


And, save the wagon rocking round. 




The landscape sleeps without a sound. 


I seek the coolest sheltered seat. 


The breeze is stopped, the lazy bough 


Just where the field and forest meet, — 


Hath not a leaf that danceth now. 






Where grow the pine-trees tall and bland, 


The taller grass upon the hiU, 


The ancient oaks austere and grand, 


And spider's threads, are standing still ; 




The feathers, dropped from moorhen's wing 


And fringy roots and pebbles fret 


Which to the water's surface cling. 


The ripples of the rivulet. 



44 P0E3IS OF NATUEE. 


I watch the mowers as they go 




Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row. 


Song. 


With even stroke their scythes they swing, 


Under the greenwood tree 


In tune their merry whetstones ring. 


Who loves to lie with me. 




And tune his merry note 


Behind, the nimble youngsters run, 


Unto the sweet bird's throat. 


And toss the thick swaths in the sun. 


Come hither, come hither, come hither ; 




Here shall he see 


The cattle graze ; while warm and still 


No enemy 


Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill. 


But Whiter and rough weather. 


And bright, where summer breezes break, 


Who doth ambition shun 


The green wheat crinkles like a lake. 


And loves to live i' the sun. 




Seeking the food he eats. 


The butterfly and humble-bee 


And pleased with what he gets, 


Come to the pleasant woods with me ; 


Come hither, come hither, come hither ; 




Here shall he see 


Quickly before me runs the quail. 


No enemy 


The chickens skulk behind the rail ; 


But Winter and rough weather. 




William Shakespbake. 


High up the lone wood-pigeon sits. 




And the woodpecker pecks and flits. 






(STome to tljeec Scenes of |)eacc. 


Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, 




The brooklet rings its tinlding bells. 


Come to these scenes of peace. 




Where to rivers murmuring. 


The swarming insects drone and hum. 


The sweet birds all the Summer sing. 


The partridge beats his throbbing drum. 


Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease. 




Stranger, does thy heart deplore 


The squirrel leaps among the boughs 


Friends whom thou wUt see no more % 


And chatters in his leafy house. 


Does thy wounded spirit prove 




Pangs of hopeless, severed love ? 


The oriole flashes by ; and, look ! 


Thee the stream that gushes clear, 


Into the mirror of the brook. 


Thee the birds that carol near. 




Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie 


Where the vain bluebird trims his coat. 


And dream of their wild lullaby ; 


Two tiny feathers fall and float. 


Come to bless these scenes of peace. 




Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease. 


As silently, as tenderly, 

The down of peace descends on me. 


William Lisle Bowles. 


0, this is peace ! I have no need 


Slje (©reenraoolf. 


Of friend to talk, of book to read ; 




! when 'tis summer weather, 


A dear Companion here abides ; 


And the yellow bee, with fairy sound. 


Close to my thrilling heart He hides ; 


The waters clear is humming round. 




And the cuckoo sings unseen. 


The holy silence is His voice : 


And the leaves are waving green — 


I lie and listen, and rejoice. 


! then 'tis sweet. 


John Townsend Trowbridge. 


In some retreat, 



THE GARDEN. 45 


To hear the murmuring dove, 


Apollo hunted Daphne so. 


With those whom on earth alone we love, 


Only that she might laurel grow : 


And to wind through the greenwood together. 


And Pan did after Syrinx speed, 




Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 


But when 'tis winter weather, 




And crosses grieve, 


What wondroxis life in this I lead ! 


And friends deceive. 


Kipe apples drop about my head ; 


And rain and sleet 


The luscious clusters of the vine 


The lattice beat, — 


Upon my mouth do crush theii- wine ; 


! then 'tis sweet 


The nectarine, and curious peach. 


To sit and sing 


Into my hands themselves do reach ; 


Of the friends with whom, in the days of Spring, 


Stumbling on melons, as I pass. 


We roamed through the greenwood together. 


Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 


William Lisle Bowles. 






Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less 




Withdraws into its happiness. 




The mind, that ocean where each kind 


(JJ^e ©ar&^tt. 


Does straight its own resemblance find ; 


How vainly men themselves amaze, 


Yet it creates, transcending these. 


Par other worlds and other seas ; 


To win the palm, the oak, or bays : 
And their incessant labors see 


Annihilating all that's made 


Crowned from some single herb, or tree. 


To a green thought in a green shade. 


Whose short and narrow-verged shade 


Here at the fountain's sliding foot. 


Does prudently their toils upbraid ; 


Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root. 


While all the flowers and trees do close, 


Casting the body's vest aside. 


To weave the garlands of repose. 


My soul into the boughs does glide ; 




There, like a bird, it sits and sings. 


Fair Quiet, have I found thee here. 


Then whets and claps its silver wings, 


And Innocence, thy sister dear ? 


And, till prepared for longer flight, 


Mistaken long, 1 sought you then 


Waves in its plumes the various light. 


In busy companies of men. 




Your sacred plants, if here below. 


Such was the happy garden state. 


Only among the plants will grow. 


WhUe man there walked without a mate : 


Society is all but rude 


After a place so pure and sweet. 


To this delicious solitude. 


What other help could yet be meet ! 




But 'twas beyond a mortal's share 


No white nor red was ever seen 


To wander solitary there : 


So amorous as this lovely green. 


Two paradises are in one. 


Fond lovers, cruel as their flame. 


To live in paradise alone. 


Cut in these trees their mistress' name. 




Little, alas ! they know or heed. 


How well the skilful gardener drew 


How far these beauties her exceed ! 


Of flowers, and herbs, this dial new ! 


Fair trees ! where'er your barks I wound. 


Where, from above, the milder sun 


No name shall but your own be found. 


Does through a fragrant zodiac run ; 




And, as it works, th' industrious bee 


When we have run our passion's heat. 


Computes its time as well as we. 


Love hither makes his best retreat. 


How could such sweet and wholesome hours 


The gods who mortal beauty chase. 


Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers ? 


Still in a tree did end their race. 


Andrew Makvell. 



46 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



®l)e CSnrben. 

Happy art thou, whom God does bless, 
With the full choice of thine own happiness ; 

And happier yet, because thou'rt blest 

With prudence, how to choose the best : 
In books and gardens thou hast placed aright 

(Things, which thou well dost understand ; 
And both dost make with thy laborious hand) 

Thy noble, innocent delight ; 
And in thy virtuous wife, where thou again dost 
meet 

Both pleasures more reiined and sweet ; 

The fairest garden in her looks, 

And in her mind the wisest books. 
0, who would change these soft, yet solid joys. 

For empty shows and senseless noise ; 

And all which rank ambition breeds. 
Which seems such beauteous flowers, and are such 
poisonous weeds ? 

When God did man to his own likeness make, 
As much as clay, though of the purest kind, 

By the great potter's art refined, 

Could the divine impression take, 

He thought it fit to place him where 

A kind of Heaven too did appear, 
As far as Earth could such a likeness bear : 

That man no happiness might want. 
Which Earth to her first master could afford. 

He did a garden for him plant 
By the quick hand of his omnipotent word. 
As the chief help and joy of human life. 
He gave him the first gift; first, even before a 
wife. 

For God, the universal architect, 

'T had been as easy to erect 
A Louvre or Escurial, or a tower 
That might with Heaven communication hold, 
As Babel vainly thought to do of old : 

He wanted not the skill or power ; 

In the world's fabric those were shown. 
And the materials were all his own. 
But well he knew what place would best agree 
With innocence and with felicity ; 
And we elsewhere still seek for them in vain ; 
If any part of either yet remain. 



If any part of either we expect, 

This may our judgment in the search direct ; 

God the first garden made, and the first city Gain. 

blessed shades ! gentle cool retreat 

From all th' immoderate heat. 
In which the frantic world does burn and sweat ! 
This does the Lion-star, ambition's rage ; 
This avarice, the Dog-star's thirst, assuage ; 
Everywhere else their fatal power we see ; 
They make and rule man's wretched destiny : 

They neither set, nor disappear. 

But tyrannize o'er all the year ; 
Whilst we ne'er feel their flame or influence here. 

The birds that dance from bough to bough. 

And sing above in every tree. 

Are not from fears and cares more free 
Than we, who lie, or sit, or walk, below, 

And should by right be singers too. 
What prince's choir of music can excel 
That, which within this shade does dwell ? 

To which we nothing pay or give ; 

They, like all other poets, live 
Without reward, or thanks for their obliging pains ; 

'Tis well if they become not prey. 
The whistling winds add their less artful strains, 
And a grave bass the murmuring fountains play ; 
Nature does all this harmony bestow, 
But to our plants art's music too. 
The pipe, theorbo, and guitar, we owe ; 
The lute itself, which once was green and mute, 

When Orpheus strook th' inspired lute. 

The trees danced round, and understood 

By sympathy the voice of wood. 

These are the spells that to kind sleep invite. 

And nothing does within resistance make, 

Which yet we moderately take ; 

Who would not choose to be awake, 
While he's encompast round with such delight. 
To th' ear, the nose, the touch, the taste, and 

sight? 
When Venus would her dear Aseanius keep 
A prisoner in the downy bands of sleep, 
The odorous herbs and flowers beneath him spread, 

As the most soft and sweetest bed ; 
Not her own lap would more have charmed his 
head. 



THE GARDEN. 47 


Who, that has reason and his smell, 


Though she herself and her gay host were drest 


Would not among roses and jasmine dwell, 


With all the shining glories of the East ; 


Rather than all his spirits choke, 


When lavish Art her costly work had done, 


With exhalations of dirt and smoke, 


The honor and the prize of bravery 


And all th' uncleanness which does drown, 


Was by the garden from the palace won. 


In pestilential clouds, a populous town ? 


And every rose and lily there did stand 


The earth itself breathes better perfumes here, 


Better attired by Nature's hand. 


Than all the female men, or women, there 


The case thus judged against the king we see, 


Not without cause, about them bear. 


By one, that would not be so rich, though wiser far 




than he. 


When Epicurus to the world had taught, 




That pleasure was the chiefest good. 


Nor does this happy place only dispense 


(And was, perhaps, i' th' right, if rightly under- 


Such various pleasures to the sense ; 


stood). 


Here health itself does live. 


His life he to his doctrine brought, 


That salt of life which does to all a relish give. 


And in a garden's shade that sovereign pleasure 


Its standing pleasure and intrinsic wealth. 


sought : 


The body's virtue and the soul's good - fortune. 


Whoever a true epicure would be. 


health. 


May there find cheap and virtuous luxuiy. 


The tree of life, when it in Eden stood. 


Vitellius's table, which did hold 


Did its immortal head to Heaven rear ; 


As many creatures as the ark of old ; 


It lasted a tall cedar, till the flood ; 


That fiscal table, to which every day 


Now a small thorny shrub it does appear; 


All countries did a constant tribute pay, 


Nor will it thrive too everywhere : 


(Jould nothing more delicious afford 


It always here is fi-eshest seen, 


Than Nature's liberality, 


'Tis only here an evergreen. 


Helped with a little art and industry. 


If, through the strong and beauteous fence 


Allows the meanest gardener's board. 


Of temperance and innocence, 


The wanton taste no fish or fowl can choose. 


And wholesome labors, and a quiet mind, 


For which the grape or melon she would lose ; 


Any diseases passage find, 


Though all th' inhabitants of sea and air 


They must not think here to assail 


Be listed in the glutton's bill of fare. 


A land unarmed or without a guard ; 


Yet still the fruits of earth we see 


They must fight for it, and dispute it hard. 


Placed the third story high in all her luxury. 


Before they can prevail : 




Scarce any plant is growing here, 


But with no sense the garden does comply. 


Which against death some weapon does not 


None courts, or flatters, as it does, the eye. 


bear. 


When the great Hebrew king did almost strain 


Let cities boast that they provide 


The wondrous treasures of his wealth, and brain, 


For life the ornaments of pride ; 


His royal southern guest to entertain ; 


But 'tis the country and the field, 


Though she on silver floors did tread. 


That furnish it with staff and shield. 


With bright Assyrian carpets on them spread, 


Where does the wisdom and the power divine 


To hide the metal's poverty ; 


In a more bright and sweet reflection shine i 


Though she looked up to roofs of gold. 


Where do we finer strokes and colors see 


And nought around her could behold 


Of the Creator's real poetry, 


But silk, and rich embroidery. 


Than when we Avith attention look 


And Babylonish tapestiy, 


Upon the third day's volume of the book? 


And wealthy Hiram's princely dye ; 


If we could open and intend our eye, 


Though Ophir's starry stones met everywhere her 


We all, like Moses, should espy 


eye; 


Even in a bush the radiant Deity. 



48 POEMS OF NATURE. 


But we despise these, his inferior ways, 


'Tis likelier, much, that you should with me 


(Though no less full of miracle and praise.) 


stay, 


Upon the flowers of Heaven we gaze ; 


Than 'tis that you should cany me away ; 


The stars of Earth no wonder in us raise ; 


And trust me not, my friends, if every day, 


Though these perhaps do, more than they, 


I walk not here with more delight 


The life of mankind sway. 


Than ever, after the most happy sight. 


Although no part of mighty Nature be 


In triumph to the Capitol I rode 


More stored with beauty, power, and mystery ; 


To thank the gods, and to be thought myself almost 


Yet, to encourage human industry, 


a god." 


God has so ordered, that no other part 


Abraham Cowley. 


Such space and such dominion leaves for Art. 




We nowhere Art do so triumphant see. 


Inscription in a fcrmitage. 


As when it grafts or buds the tree. 




In other things we count it to excel. 


Beneath this stony roof reclined, 


If it a docile scholar can appear 


I soothe to peace my pensive mind ; 


To Nature, and but imitate her well ; 


And while, to shade my lowly cave. 


It overrules and is her master, here. 


Embowering elms their umbrage wave ; 


It imitates her Maker's power divine. 


And while the maple dish is mine. 


And changes her sometimes, and sometimes does 


The beechen cup, unstained with wine, 


refine. 


I scorn the gay licentious crowd. 


It does, like grace, the fallen tree restore 


Nor heed the toys that deck the proud. 


To its blest state of Paradise before. 




Who would not joy to see his conquering hand 


Within my limits lone and still, 


O'er all the vegetable world command ? 


The black-bird pipes in artless trill ; 


And the wild giants of the wood receive 


Fast by my couch, congenial guest. 


What law he's pleased to give ? 


The wren has wove her mossy nest ; 


He bids th' ill-natured crab produce 


Prom busy scenes, and brighter skies. 


The gentle apple's winy Juice, 


To lurk with innocence, she flies. 


The golden fruit that worthy is 


Here hopes in safe repose to dwell, 


Of Galatea's purple kiss. 


Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell. 


He does the savage hawthorn teach 




To bear the medlar and the pear ; 


At morn I take my customed round, 


He bids the rustic plum to rear 


To mark how buds yon shrubby mound. 


A noble trunk, and be a peach. 


And every opening primrose count. 


Ev'n Daphne's cojTiess he does mock, 


That trimly paints my blooming mount ; 


And weds the cherry to her stock. 


Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude. 


Though she refused Apollo's suit ; 


That grace my gloomy solitude. 


Even she, that chaste and virgin tree. 


I teach in winding wreaths to stray 


Now wonders at herself, to see 


Fantastic ivy's gadding spray. 


That she's a mother made, and blushes in her fruit. 




Methinks I see great Dioclesian walk 


At eve, within yon studious nook, 


In the Salonian garden's noble shade. 


I ope my brass-embossed book. 


Which by his own imperial hands w^as made. 


Portrayed with many a holy deed 


I see him smile, methinks, as he does talk 


Of martyi's, crowned with heavenly meed. 


With the ambassadors, who come in vain 


Then, as my taper waxes dim. 


T' entice him to a throne again. 


Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn. 


" If I, my friends," said he, " should to you show 


And at the close the gleams behold 


All the delights which in these gardens grow. 


Of parting wings, be-dropt with gold. 



THE RETIREMENT. 



49 



While such pure joys my bliss create, 
Who but would smile at guilty state ? 
Who but would wish his holy lot 
In calm oblivion's humble grot ? 
Who but would east his pomp away, 
To take my staff, and amice gray, 
And to the world's tumultuous stage 
Prefer the blameless hermitage ? 

Thomas Warton. 



Farewell, thou busy world, and may 

We never meet again ; 
Here I can eat, and sleep, and pray. 
And do more good in one short day. 
Than he who his whole age out-wears 
Upon the most conspicuous theatres. 
Where nought but vanity and vice appears. 

Gooct God ! how sweet are all things here ! 
How beautiful the fields appear ! 

How cleanly do we feed and lie ! 
Lord ! what good hours do we keep ! 
How quietly we sleep ! 

What peace, what unanimity ! 
How innocent from the lewd fashion, 
Is all our business, all our recreation ! 

Oh, how happy here's our leisure ! 
Oh, how innocent our pleasure ! 
ye valleys ! ye mountains ! 
ye groves, and crystal fountains ! 
How I love, at liberty, 
By turns to come and visit ye ! 

Dear solitude, the soul's best friend, 

That man acquainted with himself dost make. 

And all his Maker's wonders to intend. 

With thee I here converse at will, 

And would be glad to do so still. 

For it is thou alone that keep'st the soul awake. 

How calm and quiet a delight 

Is it, alone 
To read, and meditate, and write. 

By none offended, and offending none ! 
To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease ; 
And, pleasing a man's self, none other to displease. 



my beloved nymph, fair Dove, 
Princess of rivers, how I love 

Upon thy flowery banks to lie. 
And view thy silver stream. 
When gilded by a Summer's beam ! 
And in it all thy wanton fry 
Playing at liberty, 
And, with my angle, upon them. 
The all of treachery 

1 ever learned industriously to try ! 

Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show. 
The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po ; 
The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine, 
Are puddle-water, all, compared with thine ; 
And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted 

are 
With thine, much purer, to compare ; 
The rapid Garonne and the winding Seine 
Are both too mean, 

Beloved Dove, with thee 

To vie priority ; 
Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoined, submit, 
And lay their trophies at thy silver feet. 

my beloved rocks, that rise 

To awe the earth and brave the skies ! 

From some aspiring mountain's crown 

How dearly do I love. 
Giddy with pleasure, to look down ; 
And, from the vales, to view the noble heights 

above ; 
my beloved caves ! from dog-star's heat. 
And all anxieties, my safe retreat ; 
What safety, privacy, what true delight. 
In the artificial night 

Your gloomy entrails make. 

Have I taken, do I take ! 
How oft, when grief has made me fly. 
To hide me from society 
E'en of my dearest friends, have I, 

In your recesses' friendly shade. 

All my sorrows open laid. 
And my most secret woes intrusted to your pri- 
vacy ! 

Lord ! would men let me alone, 
What an over-happy one 



50 P0E3IS OF NATURE. 


Should I think myself to be — 


And o'er my thoughts are cast 


Might I in this desert place, 


Tints of the vanished past. 


(Which most men in discourse disgrace,) 


Glories that faded fast. 


Live but undisturbed and free ! 


Renewed to splendor in my dreaming eyes. 


Here, in this despised recess, 




Would I, maugre Winter's cold. 


As poised on vibrant wings. 


And the Summer's worst excess, 


Where his sweet treasure swings, 


Try to live out to sixty full years old : 


The honey-lover clings 


And, all the while. 


To the red flowers. 


Without an envious eye 


So, lost in vivid light, 


On any thriving under Fortune's smile, 


So, rapt from day and night. 


Contented live, and then contented die. 


I linger in delight, 


Chakles Cotton. 


Enraptured o'er the vision-freighted hours. 




KosE Terry Cooke. 


Uene bti iHiiri. 






jismn to |Jan. 


When o'er the mountain steeps 


The hazy noontide creeps, 


THOU, whose mighty palace roof doth hang 


And the shrill cricket sleeps 


From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth 


Under the grass ; 


Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death 


When soft the shadows lie. 


Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness ; 


And clouds sail o'er the sky, 


Who lovest to see the Hamadryads dress 


And the idle winds go by, 


Their rufled locks where meeting hazels darken ; 


With the heavy scent of blossoms as they pass ; 


And through whole solemn hours dost sit and 




hearken 


Then, when the silent stream 


The dreary melody of bedded reeds 


Lapses as in a dream. 


In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds 


And the water-lilies gleam 


The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth. 


Up to the sun ; 


Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth 


When the hot and burdened day 


Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx, — do thou now. 


Stops on its downward way. 


By thy love's milky brow. 


When the motli forgets to play. 


By all the trembling mazes that she ran. 


And the plodding ant may dream her toil is 


Hear us, great Pan I 


done ; 






thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles 


Then, from the noise of war 


Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles. 


And the din of earth afar. 


What time thou wanderest at eventide 


Like some foi-gotten star 


Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side 


Dropt from the sky ; 


Of thine enmossed realms ! thou, to whom 


With the sounds of love and fear. 


Broad-leaved fig-trees even now foredoom 


All voices sad and dear. 


Their ripened fruitage ; yellow-girted bees 


Banished to silence drear. 


Their golden honeycombs ; our village leas 


The willing thrall of trances sweet I lie. 


Their fairest blossomed beans and poppied corn ; 




The chuckling linnet its five young unborn, 


Some melancholy gale 


To sing for thee ; low-creeping strawberries 


Breathes its mysterious tale. 


Their summer coolness ; pent-up butterflies 


Till the rose's lips grow pale 


Their freckled wings ; yea, the fresh-budding year 


With her sighs ; 


All its completions — be quickly near. 



HY3IN TO PAN. 



51 



By every wind that nods the mountain pine, 
forester divine ! 

Thou to whom every faun and satyr flies 
For willing service ; whether to surprise 
The squatted hare while in half-sleeping fit ; 
Or upward ragged precipices flit 
To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw ; 
Or by mysterious enticement draw 
Bewildered shepherds to their path again ; 
Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, 
And gather up all fancif ullest shells 
For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells, 
And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping ; 
Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping, 
The while they pelt each other on the crown 
With silvery oak-apples, and fir-cones brown — 
By all the echoes that about thee ring. 
Hear us, satyr king ! 

Hearkener to the loud-clapping shears, 
While ever and anon to his shorn peers 
A ram goes bleating ! Winder of the horn. 
When snouted wild-boars, routing tender corn, 
Anger our huntsmen ! Breather round our farms, 
To keep off mildews, and all weather harms ! 
Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds, 
That come a-swooning over hollow grounds, 
And wither drearily on barren moors ! 
Dread opener of the mysterious doors 
Leading to universal knowledge — see, 
Great son of Dryope, 

The many that are come to pay their vows 
With leaves about their brows ! 

Be still the unimaginable lodge 
For solitary thinkings — such as dodge 
Conception to the very bourne of heaven, 
Then leave the naked brain ; be still the leaven 
That, spreading in this dull and clodded earth. 
Gives it a touch ethereal, a new birth ; 
Be still a symbol of immensity ; 
A firmament reflected in a sea ; 
An element filling the space between ; 
An unkno^vn — but no more: we humbly screen 
With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending. 
And, giving out a shout most heaven-rending. 
Conjure thee to receive our humble paean, 
Upon thy Mount Lycean ! 

John Keats. 



So J}ait. 

All ye woods, and trees, and bowers, 
AU ye virtues and ye powers 
That inhabit in the lakes. 
In the pleasant springs or brakes. 
Move your feet 

To our sound. 
Whilst we gi-eet 

All this ground. 
With his honor and his name 
That defends our flocks from blame. 

He is great, and he is just, 
He is ever good, and must 
Thus be honored. Daffodillies, 
Roses, pinks, and loved lilies. 
Let us fling, 

WTiilst we sing, 
Ever holy. 
Ever holy, 
Ever honored, ever young ! 
Thus great Pan is ever sung. 

Beaumont and Fletchbk. 



QTlje Sircl)-8[ree. 

Rippling through thy branches goes the sunshine. 
Among thy leaves that palpitate for ever ; 
Ovid in thee a pining Nymph had prisoned. 
The soul once of some tremulous inland river. 
Quivering to tell her woe, but, ahl dumb, dumb 
for ever ! 

While all the forest, witched with slumberous moon- 
shine. 
Holds up its leaves in happy, happy silence, 
Waiting the dew, with breath and pulse suspended, — 
I hear afar thy whispering, gleaming islands. 
And track thee wakeful still amid the wide-hung 
silence. 

Upon the brink of some wood-nestled lakelet. 
Thy foliage, like the tresses of a Dryad, 
Dripping about thy slim white stem, whose shadow 
Slopes quivering down the water's dusky quiet. 
Thou shrink'st as on her bath's edge would some 
startled Dryad. 



52 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Thou art the go-between of rustic lovers ; 
Thy white bark has their secrets in its keeping : 
Reuben writes here the happy name of Patience, 
And thy lithe boughs hang murmuring and weep- 
ing 
Above her, as she steals the mystery from thy 
keeping. 

Thou art to me like my beloved maiden. 

So frankly coy, so full of trembly confidences ; 

Thy shadow scarce seems shade; thy pattering 

leaflets 
Sprinkle their gathered sunshine o'er my senses. 
And Nature gives me all her summer confidences. 

Wliether my heart with hope or sorrow tremble, 
Thou sympathizest still ; wild and unquiet, 
I fling me down, thy ripple, like a river. 
Flows valleyward where calmness is, and by it 
My heart is floated down into the land of quiet. 
James Kussell Lowell. 



toilloro Song. 



Willow ! in thy breezy moan 

I can hear a deeper tone ; 

Through thy leaves come whispering low 

Faint sweet sounds of long ago — 

Willow, sighing willow ! 

Many a mournful tale of old 
Heart-sick Love to thee hath told, 
Gathering from thy golden bough 
Leaves to cool his burning brow — 

Willow, sighing willow ! 

Many a swan-like song to thee 
Hath been sung, thou gentle tree ; 
Many a lute its last lament 
Down thy moonlight stream hath sent — 
Willow, sighing willow ! 

Therefore, wave and murmur on, 

Sigh for sweet affections gone, 

And for tuneful voices fled. 

And for Love, whose heart hath bled — 

Ever, willow, willow ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



^\)& Bclfrg IJigcon. 

On the cross-beam under the Old South bell 
The nest of a pigeon is builded well. 
In summer and winter that bird is there, 
Out and in with the morning air ; 
I love to see him track the street. 
With his wary eye and active feet ; 
And I often watch him as he springs. 
Circling the steeple with easy wings. 
Till across the dial his shade has passed. 
And the belfry edge is gained at last ; 
'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note. 
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; 
There's a human look in its swelling breast. 
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ; 
And I often stop with the fear I feel, 
He runs so close to the rapid wheel. 

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell. 
Chime of the hour, or funeral knell. 
The dove in the belfry must hear it well. 
Wlien the tongue swings out to the midnight moon. 
When the sexton cheerly rings for noon. 
When the clock strikes clear at morning light, 
Wlien the child is waked with " nine at night," 
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, 
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer, — 
Wliatever tale in the bell is heard. 
He broods on his folded feet unstirred, 
Or, rising half in his rounded nest. 
He takes the time to smooth his breast, 
Then drops again, with filmed eyes. 
And sleeps as the last vibration dies. 

Sweet bird ! I would that I could be 
A hermit in the crowd like thee ! 
With wings to fly to wood and glen. 
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ; 
And daily, with unwilling feet, 
I tread, like thee, the crowded street. 
But, unlike me, when day is o'er, 
Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar ; 
Or, at a half -felt wish for rest. 
Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, 
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. 

I would that, in such wings of gold, 
I could my weary heart upfold ; 



THE GRASSHOPPER. 



53 



I would I could look down unmoved 
(Unloving as I am unloved), 
And while the world throngs on beneath, 
Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe ; 
And never sad with others' sadness. 
And never glad with others' gladness, 
Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime. 
And, lapped in quiet, bide my time. 

Nathaniel Paekeu Willis. 



2[l)e ©rassl)0|iper. 

TO MY NOBLE FRIEND MR. CHARLES COTTON. 

THOU, that swing'st upon the waving ear 

Of some well-filled oaten beard, 
Drinik every night with a delicious tear 

Dropped thee from heaven, where now thou'rt 
reared ; 

The joys of air and earth are thine entire. 
That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly ; 

And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire 
To thy carved acorn-bed to lie. 

Up with the day, the sun thou welcom'st then ; 

Sport'st in the gilt plats of his beams. 
And all these merry days mak'st merry men, 

Thyself, and melancholy streams. 

But ah, the sickle ! golden ears are eropt ; 

Ceres and Bacchus bid good-night ; 
Sharp frosty fingers all your flowers have topt. 

And what scythes spared, winds shave off quite. 

Poor verdant fool ! and now green ice, thy joys 
Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass, 

Bid us lay in 'gainst winter rain, and poise 
Their floods with an o'erflowing glass. 

Thou best of men and friends ! we will create 
A genuine summer in each other's breast ; 

And spite of this cold time and frozen fate, 
Thaw us a warm seat to our rest. 

Our sacred hearths shall burn eternally 
As vestal flames ; the north wind, he 
Shall strike his frost-stretched wings, dissolve and 

fly 

This ^tna in epitome. 



Dropping December shall come weeping in. 

Bewail th' usui-ping of his reign ; 
But when in showers of old Greek we begin. 

Shall cry he hath his crown again. 

Mght as clear Hesper shall our tapers whip 
From the light casements where we play, 

And the dark hag from her black mantle strip 
And stick there everlasting day. 

Thus richer than untempted kings are we, 
That asking nothing, nothing need ; 

Though lord of all what seas embrace, yet he 
That wants himself, is poor indeed. 

KxcHAKD Lovelace. 



Wc\t ®»rassl)oppci:. 

Happy insect, what can be 

In happiness compared to thee ? 

Fed with nourishment divine, 

The dewy morning's gentle wine ! 

Nature waits upon thee still. 

And thy verdant cup does fill ; 

'Tis fiUed wherever thou dost tread. 

Nature self's thy Ganymede. 

Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, 

Happier than the happiest king ! 

All the fields which thou dost see, 

All the plants belong to thee ; 

AH the summer hours produce, 

Fertile made with early juice. 

Man for thee does sow and plow, 

Farmer he, and landlord thou I 

Thou dost innocently enjoy ; 

Nor does thy luxury destroy. 

The shepherd gladly heareth thee, 

More harmonious than he. 

Thee country hinds with gladness hear. 

Prophet of the ripened year ! 

Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire ; 

Phoebus is himself thy sire. 

To thee, of all things upon earth. 

Life is no longer than thy mirth. 

Happy insect ! happy thou. 

Dost neither age nor winter know ; 

But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung 

Thy fill, the flowery leaves among, 



54 POEMS OF NATURE. 


(Voluptuous and wise withal, 


Yet, alas ! we both agree. 


Epicurean animal ! ) 


Miserable thou like me ! 


Sated with thy summer feast, 


Each, alike, in youth rehearses 


Thou retir'st to endless rest. 


Gentle strains and tender verses ; 


Anacbeon. (Greek.) 


Ever wandering far from home, 


Translation of Abraham Cowley. 


Mindless of the days to come 




( Such as aged Winter brings 


aije m. 


Trembling on his icy wings), 




Both alike at last we die ; 


OCCASIONED BY A FLY DRINKING OUT OF THE 


Thou art starved, and so am I ! 


author's cup. 






Walter Habte. 


Busy, curious, thirsty fly, 




Drink with me, and drink as I ! 




Freely welcome to my cup, 
Couldst thou sip and sip it up : 


®n tt)c ®rossl)op|)cr. 


Make the most of life you may ; 


Happy songster, perched above, 


Life is short and wears away ! 


On the summit of the grove, 




Whom a dewdrop cheers to sing 


Both alike, both mine and thine, 


With the freedom of a king ; 


Hasten quick to their decline ! 


From thy perch sui-vey the fields, 


Thine's a summer ; mine no more, 


Where prolific Nature yields 


Though repeated to threescore ! 


Nought that, willingly as she, 


Threescore summers, when they're gone, 


,Man surrenders not to thee. 


Will appear as short as one ! 


For hostility or hate 


William Oldts. 


None thy pleasures can create. 




Thee it satisfies to sing 


^ Soliloqug. 


Sweetly the return of Spring ; 


Herald of the genial hours. 


OCCASIONED BY THE CHIRPING OF A GRASSHOPPER. 


Harming neither herbs nor flowers. 


Happy insect ! ever blest 


Therefore man thy voice attends 


"With a more than mortal rest. 


Gladly — thou and he are friends ; 


Kosy dews the leaves among. 


Nor thy never-ceasing strains 


Humble joys, and gentle song ! 


Phcebus or the Muse disdains 


Wretched poet ! ever curst 


As too simple or too long, 


With a life of lives the worst. 


For themselves inspire the song. 


Sad despondence, restless fears. 


Earth-bom, bloodless, undecaying, 


Endless jealousies and tears. 


Ever singing, sporting, playing. 


In the burning summer thou 


What has nature else to show 


Warblest on the verdant bough, 


Godlike in its kind as thou ? 


Meditating cheerful play, 


Anacreon. (Greek.) 


Mindless of the piercing ray ; 


Translation of William Cowpeb. 


Scorched in Cupid's fervors, I. 




Ever weep and ever die. 




Proud to gratify thy will. 


®n i\\t @rassl)op;3cr ani Qlrickct. 


Eeady Nature waits thee still ; 




Balmy wines to thee she pours. 


The poetry of earth is never dead : 


Weeping through the dewy flowers. 


When all the birds are faint with the hot sun 


Rich as those by Hebe given 


And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 


To the thirsty sons of heaven. 


From hedge to hedge aboiit the new-mown mead. 



TEE EUMBLE-BEE. 55 


That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the lead 


Voyager of light and noon. 


In summer luxury, — he has never done 


Epicurean of June ! 


With his delights ; for, when tired out with fun. 


Wait, I prithee, till I come 


He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 


Within earshot of thy hum, — 


The poetry of earth is ceasing never. 


All without is martyrdom. 


On a lone winter evening, when the frost 




Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrUls 


When the south wind, in May days, 


The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, 


With a net of shining haze 


And seems, to one in drowsiness half lost, 


Silvers the horizon wall ; 


The Grasshopper's among some grassy hUls. 


And, with softness touching all. 


John Keats. 


Tints the human countenance 




With the color of romance ; 




And infusing subtle heats 


^\\t ®ras6l)o^3pcr anb QTrirket. 


Turns the sod to violets, — 




Thou in sunny solitudes, 


Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, 


Rover of the underwoods, 


Catching yoiu- heart up at the feel of June — 


The green silence dost displace 


Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon 


With thy meUow breezy bass. 


When even the bees lag at the summoning brass ; 




And you, warm little housekeeper, who class 


Hot Midsummer's petted crone, 


With those who think the candles come too soon. 


Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 


Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune 


Tells of countless sunny hours, 


Nick the glad sUent moments as they pass ! 


Long days, and solid banks of flowers ; 


sweet and tiny cousins, that belong, 


Of gulfs of sweetness without bound. 


One to the fields, the other to the hearth. 


In Indian wildernesses found ; 


Both have your sunshine : both, though small, are 


Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure. 


strong 


Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 


At your clear hearts ; and both seem given to earth 




To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song — 


Aught unsavory or unclean 


In doors and out, summer and winter, mirth. 


Hath my insect never seen ; 


Leigh Hunt. 


But violets, and bilberry bells, 




Maple sap, and daflodels. 


®l)e i^untble-Bcc. 


Grass with green flag half-mast high. 
Succory to match the sky. 


Burly, dozing humble-bee ! 


Columbine with horn of honey. 


Where thou art is clime for me. 


Scented fern, and agrimony. 


Let them saU for Porto Rique, 


Clover, catchfly, adder's tongue, 


Far-off heats through seas to seek ; 


And brier-roses, dwelt among : 


I will follow thee alone. 


All beside was unknown waste. 


Thou animated torrid zone ! 


All was picture as he passed. 


Zig-zag steerer, desert cheerer. 




Let me chase thy waving lines ; 


Wiser far than human seer, 


Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 


Yellow-breeched philosopher. 


Singing over shrubs and vines. 


Seeing only what is fair. 




Sipping only what is sweet. 


Insect lover of the sun. 


Thou dost mock at fate and care. 


Joy of thy dominion ! 


Leave the chaff and take the wheat. 


Sailor of the atmosphere ; 


When the fierce north-western blast 


Swimmer through the waves of air. 


Cools sea and land so far and fast. 



56 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Thou already slumberest deep ; 
"Woe and want thou canst outsleep ; 
Want and woe, which torture us, 
Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 

Ralph Waldo Embrson. 



The Spice-Tree lives in the garden green ; 

Beside it the fountain flows ; 
And a fair bird sits the boughs between, 

And sings his melodious woes. 

No greener garden e'er was known 
Within the bounds of an earthly king ; 

No lovelier skies have ever shone 
Than those that illumine its constant Spring. 

That coil-bound stem has branches three ; 

On each a thousand blossoms grow ; 
And, old as aught of time can be, 

The root stands fast in the rocks below. 

In the spicy shade ne'er seems to tire 
The fount that builds a silvery dome ; 

And flakes of purple and ruby fire 
Gush out, and sparkle amid the foam. 

The fair white bird of flaming crest. 
And azure wings bedropt with gold. 

Ne'er has he known a pause of rest, 

But sings the lament that he framed of old : 

" Princess bright ! how long the night 
Since thou art sunk in the waters clear ! 

How sadly they flow from the depth below ! 
How long must I sing and thou wilt not hear ? 

" The waters play, and the flowers are' gay, 

And the skies are sunny above ; 
I would that all could fade and fall. 

And I, too, cease to mourn my love. 

" 0, many a year, so wakeful and drear, 
I have sorrowed and watched, beloved, for thee ! 

But there comes no breath from the chambers of 
death. 
While the lifeless fount gushes under the tree." 



The skies grow dark, and they glare with red ; 

The tree shakes off its spicy bloom ; 
The waves of sthe fount in a black pool spread; 

And in thunder sounds the garden's doom. 

Down springs the bird with a long shrill cry, 

Into the sable and angry flood ; 
And the face of the pool, as he falls from 
high. 

Curdles in circling stains of blood. 

But sudden again upswells the fount ; 

Higher and higher the waters flow — 
In a glittering diamond arch they mount. 

And round it the colors of morning glow. 

Finer and flner the watery mound 
Softens and melts to a thin-spun veil. 

And tones of music circle around. 
And bear to the stars the fountain's tale. 

And swift the eddying rainbow screen 

Falls in dew on the grassy floor ; 
Under the Spice-Tree the garden's Queen 

Sits by her lover, who wails no more. 

John Sterling. 



S:i)c ^rab to \\\t ^altn. 

Next to thee, fair gazelle, 

Beddowee girl, beloved so well ; 

Next to the fearless Nedjidee, 

Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee ; 

Next to ye both, I love the Palm, 

With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm ; 

Next to ye both, I love the tree 

Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three 

With love, and silence, and mystery ! 

Our tribe is many, our poets vie 

With any under the Arab sky ; 

Yet none can sing of the Palm but I. 

The marble minarets that begem 

Cairo's citadel-diadem 

Are not so light as his slender stem. 



THE ARAB TO THE PALM. 



57 



He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam's glance, 
As the Almehs lift their arms in dance — 

A slumberous motion, a passionate sign. 
That works in the ceUs of the blood like wine. 

Full of passion and sorrow is he, 
Dreaming where the beloved may be. 

And when the warm south winds arise. 
He breathes his longing in fervid sighs, 

Quickening odors, kisses of balm, 

That drop in the lap of his chosen palm. 

The sun may flame, and the sands may stir. 
But the breath of his passion reaches her. 

Tree of Love, by that love of thine. 
Teach me how 1 shall soften mine ! 

Give me the secret of the sun. 
Whereby the wooed is ever won ! 

If I were a king, stately Tree, 
A likeness, glorious as might be, 
In the court of my palace I'd build for thee 

With a shaft of silver, burnished bright. 
And leaves of beryl and malachite ; 

With spikes of golden bloom a-blaze, 
And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase. 

And there the poets, in thy praise. 

Should night and morning frame new lays — 

New measiires sung to tunes divine ; 
But none, Palm, shoidd equal mine ! 

Batakd Tati,ob. 



a;i)c Siger. 

Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, 
In the forest of the night. 
What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry ? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burned the ardor of thine eyes ? 
On what wings dare he aspire ? 
What the hand dare seize the fire ? 



And what shoulder, and what art. 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart ? 
And when thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand forged thy dread feet ? 

What the hammer ? what the chain ? 
In what furnace was thy brain f 
What the anvil f What dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 

When the stars threw down their spears, 
And watered heaven with their tears, 
Did He smile his work to see ? 
Did He who made the lamb make thee? 

Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, 
In the forest of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ? 

w^ TT.T.TAM Blake. 



The lion is the desert's king ; through his domain 

so wide 
Right swiftly and right royaUy this night he means 

to ride. 
By the sedgy brink, where the wild herds di'ink, 

close crouches the grim chief ; 
The trembling sycamore above whispers with every 

leaf. 

At evening, on the Table Mount, when ye can see 

no more 
The changeful play of signals gay ; when the gloom 

is speckled o'er 
With kraal fires; when the Caffre wends home 

through the lone karroo ; 
When the boshbok in the thicket sleeps, and by the 

stream the gnu ; 

Then bend your gaze across the waste — what see 

ye? Thegii-affe, 
Majestic, stalks towards the lagoon, the turbid 

lymph to quaff ; 
With outstretched neck and tongue adust, he 

kneels him down to cool 
His hot thirst with a welcome draught from the 

foul and brackish pool. 



58 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



A rustling sound — a roar — a bound — the lion sits 

astride 
Upon his giant courser's back. Did ever king so 

ride? 
Had ever Icing a steed so rare, caparisons of 

state 
To match the dappled skin whereon that rider sits 

elate ? 

In the muscles of the neck his teeth are plunged 
with ravenous greed ; 

His tawny mane is tossing round the withers of the 
steed. 

Up leaping with a hollow yell of anguish and sur- 
prise, 

Away, away, in wild dismay, the camel-leopard 
flies. 

His feet have wings ; see how he springs across the 
moonlit plain ! 

As from their sockets they would burst, his glaring 
eyeballs strain ; 

In thick black streams of purling blood, full fast 
his life is fleeting ; 

The stillness of the desert hears his heart's tumult- 
uous beating. 

Like the cloud that, through the wilderness, the 

path of Israel traced — 
Like an airy phantom, dull and wan, a spirit of the 

waste — 
Prom the sandy sea uprising, as the water-spout 

from ocean, 
A whirling cloud of dust keeps pace with the 

courser's fiery motion. 

Croaking companion of their flight, the vulture 

whirs on high ; 
Below, the terror of the fold, the panther fierce and 

sly, 

And hyenas foul, round graves that prowl, join in 

the horrid race ; 
By the foot-prints wet with gore and sweat, their 

monarch's course they trace. 

They see him on his living throne, and quake with 

fear, the while 
With claws of steel he tears piecemeal his cushion's 

painted pile. 



On ! on ! no pause, no rest, giraffe, while life and 

strength remain ! 
The steed by such a rider backed, may madly 

plunge in vain. 

Reeling upon the desert's verge, he falls, and 
breathes his last ; 

The courser, stained with dust and foam, is the 
rider's fell repast. 

O'er Madagascar, eastward far, a faint flush is de- 
scried : 

Thus nightly, o'er his broad domain, the king of 
beasts doth ride. 

Ferdinand Fkeiligbath. (German.) 
Anonymous translation. 



%\\t ®asis of 0iM lil)(ikb. 

How the earth burns ! Each pebble under foot 
Is as a living thing with power to wound. 
The white sand quivers, and the footfall. mute 
Of the slow camels strikes but gives no sound, 
As though they walked on flame, not solid ground ! 
'Tis noon, and the beasts' shadows even have fled 
Back to their feet, and there is flre around 
And fire beneath, and the sun overhead. 
Pitiful Heaven ! what is this we view ? 
Tall trees, a river, pools, where swallows fly. 
Thickets of oleander where doves coo. 
Shades, deep as midnight, greenness for tired eyes. 
Hark, how the light winds in the palm-tops sigh ! 
Oh, this is rest ! oh, this is paradise ! 

WrLPBID SCAWEN BlOUNT. 



WouLDST thou view the lion's den \ 
Search afar from haunts of men, 
Where the reed-encircled rill 
Oozes from the rocky hill, 
By its verdure far descried 
'Mid the desert brown and wide. 

Close beside the sedgy brim, 
Couchant, lurks the lion grim ; 
Watching till the close of day 
Brings the death-devoted prey. 



AFAB IN THE DESERT. 



59 



Heedless at the ambushed brink 

The tall giraffe stoops down to drink ; 

Upon him straight the savage springs 

With cruel joy. The desert rings 

With clanging sound of desperate strife ; 

The prey is strong, and strives for Life. 

Plunging off with frantic bound 

To shake the tyrant to the ground, 

He shrieks — he rushes through the waste, 

With glaring eye and headlong haste. 

In vain ! — the spoiler on his prize 

Rides proudly, tearing as he flies. 

For life, the victim's utmost speed 

Is mustered in this hour of need. 

For life, for life, his giant might 

He strains, and pours his soul in flight ; 

And mad with terror, thirst, and pain, 

Spurns with wild hoof the thundering plain. 

'Tis vain ; the thirsty sands are drinking 

His streaming blood, his strength is sinking ; 

The victor's fangs are in his veins, 

His flanks are streaked with sanguine stains ; 

His panting breast in foam and gore 

Is bathed — he reels — his race is o'er. 

He falls — and, with convulsive throe. 

Resigns his throat to the ravening foe ! 

— And lo ! ere quivering life is fled, 

The vultures, wheeling overhead. 

Swoop down, to watch in gaunt array, 

Till the gorged tyrant quits his prey. 

Thomas Pringle. 



^far in tl)C ^Desert. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride. 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast. 
And, sick of the present, I cling to the past ; 
Wlien the eye is suffused with regretful tears. 
From the fond recollections of former years ; 
And shadows of things that have long since fled 
Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead : 
Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon ; 
Day-dreams that departed ere manhood's noon ; 
Attachments by fate or falsehood reft ; 
Companions of early days lost or left — 
And my native land — whose magical name 
Thrills to the heart like electric flame : 



The home of my childhood ; the haunts of my 
prime; 

All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time 

When the feelings were young, and the world was 
new. 

Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view ; 

All — aU now forsaken — forgotten — foregone ! 

And I — a lone exile remembered of none — 

My high aims abandoned, — my good acts un- 
done — 

Aweary of all that is under the sun — 

With that sadness of heart which no stranger may 
scan, 

I fly to the desert afar from man. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 
WTien the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, 
With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and 

strife — 
The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear — 
The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear — 
And malice, and meanness, and faJsehood, and 

folly. 
Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy ; 
When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are 

high, 
And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh — 
Oh ! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, 
Afar in the desert alone to ride ! 
There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, 
And to bound away with the eagle's speed. 
With the death-fraught firelock in my hand — 
The only law of the Desert Land ! 

Afar in the desert I love to ride. 

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 

Away — away from the dweUings of men. 

By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen ; 

By valleys remote where the oribi plays. 

Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest 

graze. 
And the kudu and eland unhunted recline 
By the skirts of gray forest o'erhimg with wild 

vine : 
Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood. 
And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood. 
And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will 
In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill. 



60 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Afar in the desert 1 love to ride, 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 
O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating cry 
Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively ; 
And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh 
Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray ; 
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane, 
With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain ; 
And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste 
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste. 
Hieing away to the home of her rest. 
Where she and her mate have scooped their 

nest. 
Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view 
In the pathless depths of the parched karroo. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 

Away — away — in the wilderness vast 

Where the white man's foot hath never passed. 

And the quivered Coranna pr Bechuan 

Hath rarely crossed with his roving elan : 

A region of emptiness, howling and drear. 

Which man hath abandoned from famine and 

fear ; 
Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, 
With the twilight bat from the yawning stone ; 
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, 
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot ; 
And the bitter melon, for food and drink, 
Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt-lake's brink ; 
A region of drought, where no river glides. 
Nor rippling brook with osiered sides ; 
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount. 
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, 
Appears, to refresh the aching eye ; 
But the barren earth and the burning sky. 
And the blank horizon, round and round, 
Spread — void of living sight or sound. 
And here, while the night-winds round me 

sigh. 
And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky. 
As I sit apart by the desert stone, 
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone, , 
" A stUl small voice " comes through the wild. 
Like a father consoling his fretful child. 
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear. 
Saying — Man is distant, but God is near ! 

Thomas Peingle. 



Beautiful ! Sir, you may say so. Thar is n't her 
match in the county, — 

Is thar, old gal ? Chiquita, my darling, my beauty ! 

Feel of that neck, sir, — thar's velvet! Whoa! 
Steady — ah, will you ? you vixen ! 

Whoa ! I say. Jack, trot her out ; let the 'gentle- 
man look at her paces. 

Morgan ! — She ain't nothin' else, and I've got the 
papers to prove it. 

Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hundred dol- 
lars won't buy hei'. 

Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did you know 
Briggs of Tuolumne? — 

Busted hisself in White Pine, and blew out his 
brains down in 'Frisco ? 

Hed n't no savey, — hed Briggs. Thar, Jack ! that'll 

do, — quit that foolin' ! 
Nothin' to what she kin do when she's got her work 

cut out before her. 
Hosses is hosses, you know, and likewise, too. 

Jockeys is jockeys ; 
And 'tain't every man as can ride as knows what a 

hoss has got in him. 

Know the old ford on the Fork, that nearly got 

Flanigan's leaders ? 
Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a mighty rough 

ford in low water ! 
Well, it ain't six weeks ago that me and the Jedge, 

and his nevey. 
Struck for that ford in the night, in the rain, and 

the water all round us ; 

Up to our flanks in the gulch, and Eattlesnake 

Creek just a bilin'. 
Not a plank left in the dam, and nary a bridge on 

the river. 
I had the gray, and the Jedge had his roan, and his 

nevey, Chiquita ; 
x\nd after us trundled the rocks jest loosed from 

the top of the canon. 

Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to tlie ford, and 

Chiquita 
Buckled right down to her work, and afore I could 

yell to her rider, 



THE GLOBY OF MOTION. 



61 



Took water jest at the ford, and there was the 

Jedge and me standing, 
And twelTB hundred dollars of hoss-flesh afloat, 

and a driftin' to thunder ! 

Would ye b'lieve it, that night, that hoss, — that 

ar' filly, — Chiqiiita, — 
Walked herself into her stall, and stood there all 

quiet and dripping ! 
Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of harness, 
Just as she swam the Fork, — that hoss, that ar' 

filly, Chiquita. 

That's what I call a hoss ! and — what did you say ? 

0, the nevey ? 
Drownded, I reckon, — leq^stways, he never kem 

back to deny it. 
Ye see the derned fool had no seat, — ye could n't 

have made him a rider ; 

And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and hosses 

— ^weU, hosses is hosses ! 

Bbbt Haute. 



Gamarra is a dainty steed. 
Strong, black, and of a noble breed. 
Full of fire, and t\\^ of bone, 
With all his line of fathers known ; 
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin. 
But blown abroad by the pride within ! 
His mane is like a river flowing. 
And his eyes like embers glowing 
In the darkness of the night, 
And his pace as swift as light. 

Look — how 'round his straining throat 

Grace and shifting beauty float ; 

Sinewy strength is in his reins. 

And the red blood gallops through his veins ; 

Richer, redder, never ran 

Through the boasting heart of man. 

He can trace his lineage higher 

Than the Bourbon dare aspire, — 

Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, 

Or O'Brien's blood itself ! 

He, who hath no peer, was born, 
Here, upon a red March morn ; 



But his famous fathers dead 

Were Arabs all, and Arab bred, 

And the last of that great line 

Trod like one of a race divine ! 

And yet, — he was but friend to one. 

Who fed him at the set of sun. 

By some lone fountain fringed with green : 

With him, a roving Bedouin, 

He lived (none else would he obey 

Through all the hot Arabian day). 

And died untamed upon the sands 

Where Balkh amidst the desert stands, 

Barkt Cornwall. 



Wc)t (^iorg of ittotion. 

Three twangs of the horn, and they're all out of 
cover ! 
Must brave you, old bull-finch, that's right in 
the way ! 
A rush, and a bound, and a crash, and I'm 
over ! 
They're silent and racing and f or'ard away ; 
Fly, Charley, my darling ! Away and we fol- 
low; 
There's no earth or cover for mile upon mile ; 
We're winged with the flight of the stork and the 
swallow ; 
The heart of the eagle is ours for a while. 

The pasture-land knows not of rough plough or 
harrow ! 

The hoofs echo hoUow and soft on the sward ; 
The soul of the horses goes into our marrow ; 

My saddle's a kingdom, and I am its lord : 
And rolling and flowing beneath us like ocean. 

Gray waves of the high ridge and furrow glide 
on. 
And small flying fences in musical motion, 

Before us, beneath us, behind us, are gone. 

puissant of bone and of sinew availing. 
On thee how I've longed for the brooks and the 
showers ! 
white-breasted camel, the meek and unfail- 
ing. 
To speed through the glare of the long desert 
hours ! 



63 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



And, bright little Barbs, ye make worthy pre- 
tences 
To go with the going of Solomon's sires ; 
But you stride not the stride, and you fly not the 
fences ! 
And all the wide Hejaz is naught to the shires. 

gay gondolier! from thy night-flitting shal- 
lop 

I've heard the soft pulses of oar and guitar ; 
But sweeter the rhythmical rush of the gallop. 

The fire in the saddle, the flight of the star. 
Old mare, my beloved, no stouter or faster 

Hath ever strode under a man at his need ; 
But glad in the hand and embrace of thy mas- 
ter, 

And pant to the passionate music of speed. 

Can there e'er be a thought to an elderly person 

So keen, so inspiring, so hard to forget. 
So fully adapted to break into burgeon 

As this — that the steel is n't out of him yet ; 
That flying speed ticldes one's brain with a feather ; 

That one's horse can restore one the years that 
are gone ; 
That, spite of gray winter and weariful weather, 

The blood and the pace carry on, carry on ? 

KicHAKD St. John Ttrwhitt. 



Kflin on X\)t Eoof. 

When the humid shadows hover 

Over aU the starry spheres. 
And the melancholy darkness 

Gently weeps in rainy tears. 
What a bliss to press the pillow 

Of a cottage-chamber bed, 
And to listen to the patter 

Of the soft rain overhead I 

Every tinkle on the shingles 

Has an echo in the heart ; 
And a thousand dreamy fancies 

Into busy being start. 
And a thousand recollections 

Weave their air-threads into woof. 
As I listen to the patter 

Of the rain upon the roof. 



Now in memory comes my mother. 

As she used long years agone. 
To regard the darling dreamers 

Ere she left them tiU the dawn. 
Oh ! I see her leaning o'er me, 

As I list to this refrain 
Which is played upon the shingles 

By the patter of the rain. 

Then my little seraph sister. 

With her wings and waving hair, 
And her star-eyed cherub brother — 

A serene, angelic pair — 
Glide around my wakeful pillow 

With their praise or mild reproof, 
As I listen to the murmur 

Of the soft rain on the roof. 

And another comes, to thrill me 

With her eyes' delicious blue ; 
And I mind not, musing on her. 

That her heart was all untrue t 
I remember but to love her 

With a passion kin to pain. 
And my heart's quick pulses vibrate 

To the patter of the rain. 

Art hath naught of tone or cadence 

That can work with such a spell 
In the soul's mysterious fountains, 

Whence the tears of rapture well. 
As that melody of Nature, 

That subdued, subduing strain 
Which is played upon the shingles 

By the patter of the rain. 

COATES KlNNBT. 



lnt)ocati0n to Hoin in Summer. 

GENTLE, gentle summer rain, 

Let not the silver lily pine, 
The drooping lily pine in vain 

To feel that dewy touch of thine, 
To drink thy freshness once again, 

gentle, gentle summer rain ! 

In heat the landscape quivering lies ; 

The cattle pant beneath the tree ; 
Through parching air and purple skies 

The earth looks up, in vain, for thee ; 



THE CLOUD. 



63 



For thee, for thee, it looks in vain, 
gentle, gentle summer rain ! 

Come, thou, and brim the meadow streams, 
And soften all the hills with mist, 

falling dew ! from burning dreams 
By these shall herb and flower be kissed ; 

And Earth shall bless thee yet again, 
gentle, gentle summer rain I 

William Q. Bennett. 



tl)e Otloulr. 

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers. 

From the seas and the streams ; 
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noon-day dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet birds every one. 
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under ; 
And then again I dissolve it in rain ; 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below. 

And their great pines groan aghast ; 
And aU the night, 'tis my pillow white. 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers 

Lightning, my pilot, sits ; 
In a cavern under, is fettered the thunder ; 

It struggles and howls at fits. 
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 

This pilot is guiding me. 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea ; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hUls, 

Over the lakes and the plains. 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. 

The spirit he loves, remains ; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile. 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes. 
And his burning plumes outspread. 

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 
When the morning star shines dead. 



As, on the jag of a mountain crag 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings. 
An eagle, alit, one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings ; 
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea 
beneath, 

Its ardors of rest and of love. 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above. 
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest. 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden with white fire laden. 

Whom mortals call the moon, 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor 

By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And, wherever the beat of her unseen feet. 

Which only the angels hear, 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin 
roof. 

The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees. 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent. 

Till the calm river, lakes, and seas. 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high. 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and 
swim. 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 

Over a torrent sea. 
Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march. 

With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
When the powers of the air are chained to my 
chair. 

Is the million-colored bow ; 
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove. 

While the moist earth was laiighing below. 

I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nursling of the sky ; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; 

I change, but I cannot die. 




64 POEMS OF NATURE. 


For after the rain, when, with never a stain, 


Beneath the golden gloamin' sky 


The pavilion of heaven is bare, 


The mavis mends her lay ; 


And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex 


The red-breast pours his sweetest strains. 


gleams. 


To charm the ling'ring day ; 


Build up the blue dome of air, 


While weary yeldrins seem to wail 


I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. 


Their little nestlings torn, 


And out of the caverns of rain. 


The merry wren, frae den to den. 


Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the 


Gaes jinking through the thorn. 


tomb, 




I arise and unbuild it again. 


The roses fauld their silken leaves. 


Perct Btsshe Shbllet. 


The foxglove shuts its bell ; 




The honeysuckle and the birk 




Spread fragrance through the dell. 


SDrinking. 


Let others crowd the giddy court 


Of mirth and revelry. 


The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, 


The simple joys that Nature yields 


And drinks, and gapes for drink again ; 


Are dearer far to me. 


The plants suck in the earth, and are, 


Egbert Tannahcll. 


With constant drinking, fresh and fair ; 




The sea itself (which one would think 




Should have but little need to drink). 


Slje tOanbcring toinb. 


Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up, 


So filled that they o'erflow the cup. 


The Wind, the wandering Wind 


The busy sun (and one would guess 


Of the golden summer eves — 


By's drunken fiery face no less). 


Whence is the thrilling magic 


Drinks up the sea, and, when he 'as done, 


Of its tones amongst the leaves ? 


The moon and stars drink up the sun : 


Oh ! is it from the waters, 


They drink and dance by their own light ; 


Or from the long tall grass? 


They drink and revel all the night. 


Or is it from the hollow rocks 


Nothing in nature's sober found. 


Through which its breathings pass? 


But an eternal " health " goes round. 




Pill up the bowl then, fill it high — 


Or is it from the voices 


Fill all the glasses there ; for why 


Of all in one combined, 


Should every creatiire drink but I ? 


That it wins the tone of mastery ? 


Why, man of morals, tell me why ? 


The Wind, the wandering Wind ! 


Anacrbon. (Greek.) 


No, no ! the strange, sweet accents 


Translation of Abraham Co-wlet. 


That with it come and go. 




They are not from the osiers. 




Nor the fir-trees whispering low. 


^\)z iilibgcs lUance aboon i\\t JSurn. 


They are not of the waters. 


The midges dance aboon the bum ; 


Nor of the caverned hill ; 


The dews begin to fa' ; 


'Tis the human love within us 


The pairtricks down the rushy holm 


That gives them power to thrill : 


Set up their e'ening ca'. 


They touch the links of memory 


Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang 


Around oiir spirits twined. 


Rings through the briery shaw. 


And we start, and weep, and tremble, 


Wliile, flitting gay, the swallows play 


To the Wind, the wandering Wind ? 


Around the castle wa'. 


Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



ODE TO THE WEST WIND. 



65 



®i»e to llic tocst toinir. 



■WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's 

being, 
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing. 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red. 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes ! thou. 
Who chariotest to their dark, wintry bed 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low. 
Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
(Driving sweet buds, like flocks, to feed in air) 
With living hues and odors, plain and hill : 

Wild spirit, which art moving everywhere ; 
Destroyer and preserver ; hear, hear ! 



Thou, on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's com- 
motion. 
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed. 
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning : there are spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 

Of some fierce Masnad, even from the dim verge 

Of the horizon to the zenith's height. 

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 

Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre 
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapors ; from whose solid atmosphere 

Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst : hear ! 

in. 

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams 
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay. 
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, 

Beside a pumice isle in Baire's bay. 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers. 
Quivering within the waves' intenser day, 
7 



All overgrown with azure moss and flowers 
So sweet the sense faints picturing them ! 
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 



Thou 



Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below. 
The sea-blooms, and the oozy woods which wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow, gray with fear. 
And tremble and despoil themselves : hear ! 

IV. 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ; 

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ; 

A wave to pant beneath thy power and share 

The impulse of thy strength — only less free 
Than thou, uncontrollable ! If even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven 
As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed 
Scarce seemed a vision, I would ne'er have striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Oh ! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed 
One too like thee — tameless, and swift, and proud. 

V. 

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is. 
What if my leaves are falling like its own ! 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 

Will take from both a deep autumnal tone — 
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, 
My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one ! 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe. 
Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth ; 
And, by the incantation of this verse, 

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind I 
Be through my lips to unawakened earth 

The triimpet of a prophecy ! wind, 
If winter comes, can spring be far behind f 

Pekct Btsshe Shelley. 



66 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



QTacking 0l)ip off 0l)ore. 

The weather-leech of the topsail shivers, 

The bowlines strain, and the lee-shrouds slacken, 

The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, 

And the waves with the coming squall-cloud 
blacken. 

Open one point on the weather-bow, 
Is the light-house tall on Fire Island Head ? 

There's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow, 
And the pilot watches the heaving lead. 

I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye 
To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze, 

Till the muttered order of " Pull and by ! " 
Is suddenly changed for " Pull for stays ! " 

The ship bends lower before the breeze. 
As her broadside fair to the blast she lays ; 

And she swifter springs to the rising seas. 
As the pilot calls, " Stand by for stays ! " 

It is silence all, as each in his place. 
With the gathered coil in his hardened hands. 

By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace. 
Waiting the watchword impatient stands. 

And the light on Pire Island Head draws 
near. 

As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout 
From his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear. 

With the welcome call of " Ready ! About ! " 

No time to spare ! It is touch and go ; 
And the captain growls, "Down, helm! hard 
down ! " 
As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw, 
While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's 
frown. 

High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray, 
As we meet the shock of the plunging sea ; 

And my shoulder stifE to the wheel I lay, 
As I answer, " Ay, ay, sir ! Ha-a-rd a-lee ! " 

With the swerving leap of a startled steed 
The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind. 

The dangerous shoals on the lee recede, 

And the headland white we have left behind. 



The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse. 
And belly and tug at the groaning cleats ; 

The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps ; 
And thunders the order, " Tacks and sheets ! " 

'Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew. 
Hisses the rain of the rushing squall : 

The sails are aback from clew to clew, 

And now is the moment for, " Mainsail, haul ! " 

And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy, 
By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung : 

She holds her way, and I look with joy 

For the first white spray o'er tlie bulwarks flung. 

" Let go, and haul ! " 'Tis the last command, 
And the head-saUs fiU to the blast once more : 

Astern and to leeward lies the land, 
With its breakers white on the shingly shore. 

What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall ? 

I steady the helm for the open sea ; 
The first mate clamors, " Belay, there, all ! " 

And the captain's breath once more comes free. 

And so off shore let the good ship fly ; 

Little care I how the gusts may blow, 
In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry, 

Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below. 
Wajlter Mitchell. 



The sea ! the sea ! the open sea ! 

The blue, the fresh, the ever free I 

Without a mark, without a bound. 

It runneth the earth's wide regions round ; 

It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies ; 

Or like a cradled creature lies. 

I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea I 

I am where I would ever be ; 

With the blue above, and the blue below. 

And silence wheresoe'er I go : 

If a storm should come and awake the deep, 

What matter ? I shall ride and sleep. 

I love, oh how I love to ride 

On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, 



THE STORMY PETREL. 



67 



When every mad wave drowns the moon, 
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, 
And tells how goeth the world below, 
And why the sou'west blasts do blow. 

I never was on the dull, tame shore. 
But I loved the great sea more and more, 
And backwark flew to her billowy breast, 
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest ; 
And a mother she was, and is, to me ; 
For I was born on the open sea ! 

The waves were white, and red the morn. 
In the noisy hour when I was born ; 
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled. 
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold ; 
And never was heard such an outcry wild 
As welcomed to life the ocean-child 1 

I've lived since then, in calm and strife, 
Full fifty summers, a sailor's life. 
With wealth to spend, and power to range, 
But never have sought nor sighed for change ; 
And Death, whenever he comes to me, 
Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea ! 

BabHT CORNWAII,. 



a:i)e Storing |)etrcl. 

A THOUSAND miles from land are we. 

Tossing about on the stormy sea — 

From billow to bounding billow cast. 

Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast. 

The sails are scattered abroad like weeds ; 

The strong masts shake like quivering reeds ; 

The mighty cables and iron chains. 

The hull, which all earthly strength disdains, — 

They strain and they crack ; and hearts like 

stone 
Their natural, hard, proud strength disown. 

Up and down ! — up and down ! 

From the base of the wave to the billow's crown, 

And amidst the flashing and feathery foam. 

The stormy petrel finds a home — 

A home, if such a place may be 

For her who lives on the wide, wide sea, 



On the craggy ice, in the frozen air, 

And only seeketh her rocky lair 

To warm her young, and to teach them to spring 

At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing ! 

O'er the deep ! — o'er the deep ! 

Where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish 

sleep — 
Outflying the blast and the driving rain, 
The petrel telleth her tale — in vain ; 
For the mariner curseth the warning bird 
Which bringeth him news of the storm unheard. 
Ah ! thus does the prophet of good or ill 
Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still ; 
Yet he ne'er falters — so, petrel, spring 
Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing ! 

Barry Cornwall. 



^ toet Q\\tt\ avib a JFIoBoing Sea. 

A WET sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast. 
And fills the white and rustling sail, 

And bends the gallant mast — 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys. 

While, like the eagle free. 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves 

Old England on the lee. 

Oh for a soft and gentle wind ! 

I heard a fair one cry ; 
But give to me the snoring breeze. 

And white waves heaving high — 
And white waves -heaving high, my boys, 

The good ship tight and free ; 
The world of waters is our home. 

And merry men are we. 

There's tempest in yon horned moon, 

And lightning in yon cloud ; 
And hark the music, mariners ! 

The wind is piping loud — 
The wind is piping loud, my boys, 

The lightning flashing free ; 
While the hollow oak our palace is, 

Our heritage the sea. 

AlLAK CtmNTNGHAM. 



68 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



The twilight is sad and cloudy ; 

The wind blows wild and free ; 
And like the wings of sea-birds 
' Flash the white caps of the sea. 

But in the fisherman's cottage 

There shines a ruddier light, 
And a little face at the window 

Peers out into the night ; 

Close, close it is pressed to the window, 

As if those childish eyes 
Were looking into the darkness. 

To see some form arise. 

And a woman's waving shadow 

Is passing to and fro, 
Now rising to the ceilLag, 

Now bowing and bending low. 

What tale do the roaring ocean 
And the night-wind, bleak and wild. 

As they beat at the crazy casement, 
Tell to that little child? 

And why do the roaring ocean, 

And the night-wind, wild and bleak. 

As they beat at the heart of the mother, 
Drive the color from her cheek ? 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



Storm Seng. 

The clouds are scudding across the moon ; 

A misty light is on the sea ; 
The wind in the shrouds has a wintry tune, 

And the foam is flying free. 

Brothers, a night of terror and gloom 
Speaks in the cloud and gathering roar ; 

Thank God, He has given us broad sea-room, 
A thousand miles from shore. ' 

Down with the hatches on those who sleep ! 

The wUd and whistling deck have we ; 
Good watch, my brothers, to-night we'll keep. 

While the tempest is on the sea ! 



Though the rigging shriek in his terrible grip. 
And the naked spars be snapped away, 

Lashed to the helm, we'll di'ive our ship 
In the teeth of the whelming spray ! 

Hark ! how the surges o'erleap the deck ! 

Hark ! how the pitiless tempest raves ! 
Ah, daylight will look upon many a wi'eck 

Drifting over the desert waves. 

Yet, courage, brothers ! we trust the wave, 
With God above us, our giiiding chart. 

So, whether to harbor or ocean-grave. 
Be it still with a cheery heart ! 

Bayard Taylor. 



2lt 0eo. 

The night is made for cooling shade. 

For sUence, and for sleep ; 
And when I was a child, I laid 
My hands upon my breast, and prayed, 

And sank to slumbers deep : 
Childlike as then I lie to-night. 
And watch my lonely cabin-light. 

Each movement of the swaying lamp 

Shows how the vessel reels : 
As o'er her deck the billows tramp. 
And all her timbers strain and cramp 

With every shock she feels. 
It starts and shudders, while it bums. 
And in its hinged socket turns. 

Now swinging slow and slanting low, 

It almost level lies ; 
And yet I know, while to and fro 
I watch the seeming pendule go 

With restless fall and rise. 
The steady shaft is still upright, 
Poising its little globe of light. 

hand of God ! lamp of peace ! 
promise of my soul ! 

Though weak, and tossed, and ill at ease. 
Amid the roar of smiting seas. 
The ship's convulsive roll, 

1 own with love and tender awe 
Ton perfect type of faith and law. 



SEAWEED. 69 


A heavenly trust my spirit calms, 


With the golden fruit of truth ; 


My soul is filled with light : 


From the flashing surf whose vision 


The Ocean sings his solemn psalms, 


Gleams Elysian 


The wild winds chant : I cross my palms, 


In the tropic clime of Youth ; 


Happy as if to-night 




Under the cottage roof again 


From the strong will, and the endeavor 


I heard the soothing summer rain. 


That for ever 


John Townsend Trowbridge. 


Wrestles with the tides of fate ; 




Prom the wreck of hopes far-scattered. 




Tempest-shattered, 




Floating waste and desolate ; — 


0eatDceI>. 






Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 


When descends on the Atlantic 


On the shifting 


The gigantic 


Currents of the restless heart ; 


Storm-wind of the equinox, 


Till at length in books recorded. 


Landward in his wrath he scourges 


They, like hoarded 


The toiling surges. 


Household words, no more depart. 


Laden with seaweed from the rocks ; 


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


Prom Bermuda's reefs ; from edges 




Of sunken ledges 
In some far-off, bright Azore ; 


®nlf-iX)eeI>. 


From Bahama and the dashing, 


A WEARY weed, tossed to and fro. 


Silver-ilashing 


Drearily drenched in the ocean brine, 


Surges of San Salvador ; 


Soaring high and sinking low. 


< 


Lashed along without will of mine ; 


From the tumbling surf that buries 
The Orkneyan skerries, 


Sport of the spoom of the surging sea ; 
Flung on the foam, afar and anear. 


Answering the hoarse Hebrides : 


Mark my manifold mystery, — 


And from wi'ecks of ships, and drifting 


Growth and grace in their place appear. 


Spars, uplifting 




On the desolate, rainy seas ; — 


I bear round berries, gray and red. 




Rootless and rover though I be ; 


Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 


My spangled leaves, when nicely spread. 


On the shifting 


Arboresce as a trunkless tree ; 


Currents of the restless main ; 


Corals curious coat me o'er. 


Till in sheltered coves, and reaches 


White and hard in apt array ; 


Of sandy beaches, 


Mid the wild waves' rude uproar, 


All have found repose again. 


Gracefully grow I, night and day. 


So when storms of wild emotion 


Hearts there are on the sounding shore, 


Strike the ocean 


Something whispers soft to me. 


Of the poet's soul, ere long. 


Restless and roaming for evermore. 


From each cave and rocky fastness 


Like this weary weed of the sea ; 


In its vastness. 


Bear they yet on each beating breast 


Floats some fragment of a song : 


The eternal type of the wondrous whole — 




Growth unfolding amidst unrest. 


From the far-off isles enchanted 


Grace informing with silent soul. 


Heaven has planted 


Cornelius George Fbnner. 



70 



POJEMS OF NATURE. 



®n a pctitre of |)cel Castle in a Storm. 

I WAS thy neighbor once, thou rugged pile ! 

Four summer weeks 1 dwelt in sight of 
thee: 
I saw thee every day ; and all the while 

Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air, 

So like, so very like was day to day. 
Whene'er I looked, thy image still was there ; 

It trembled, but it never passed away. 

How perfect was the calm ! It seemed no 
sleep, 

No mood which season takes away or brings : 
1 could have fancied that the mighty Deep 

Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 

Ah ! then if mine had been the painter's hand 
To express what then I saw, and add the 
gleam. 

The light that never was on sea or land, 
The consecration, and the poet's dream, — 

I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile, 
Amid a world how different from this ! 

Beside a sea that could not cease to smile, 
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 

A picture had it been of lasting ease, 

Elysian quiet without toil or strife ; 
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, 

Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, 
Such picture would I at that time have made ; 

And seen the soul of truth in every part, 
A steadfast peace that miglat not be be- 
trayed. 

So once it would have been ; — 'tis so no more ; 

I have submitted to a new control : 
A power is gone, which nothing can restore ; 

A deep distress hath humanized njy soul. 

Not for a moment could I now behold 
A smiling sea, and be what I have been ; 

The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old ; 

This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 



Then, Beaumont, friend! who would have been 
the friend. 

If he had lived, of him whom I deplore, 
This work of thine I blame not, but commend ; 

This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 

'tis a passionate work ! — yet wise and well, 
Well chosen is the spirit that is here : 

That hulk which labors in the deadly swell, 
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 

And this huge castle, standing here sublime, 
I love to see the look with which it braves. 

Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time. 
The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling 

waves. 

Farewell, farewell, the heart that lives alone. 
Housed in a dream at distance from the kind ! 

Such happiness, wherever it be known, 
Is to be pitied ; for 'tis surely blind. 

But welcome, fortitude and patient cheer, 
And frequent sights of what is to be borne. 

Such sights, or worse, as are before me hei'e : 
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 

William WoRDSwoRTn. 



^\)t Cittle Beacli-Birb. 

Thou little bird, thoii dweller by the sea. 
Why takest thou its melancholy voice. 
And with that boding cry 
O'er the waves dost thou fly 1 
Oh ! rather, bird, with me 
Through the fair land rejoice ! 

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale. 
As driven by a beating storm at sea ; 
Thy cry is weak and scared. 
As if thy mates had shared 
The doom of us. Thy wail — 
What does it bring to me ? 

Thou call'st along the sand, and haimt'st the surge, 
Restless and sad ; as if, in strange accord 
With the motion and the roar 
Of waves that drive to shore. 
One spirit did ye urge — 
The Mystery — the Word. 



THE SANB-PIPER. 71 


Of thousands thou both sepulchre and pall, 


I do not fear for thee, though wroth 


Old Ocean, art ! A requiem o'er the dead 


The tempest rushes through the sky ; 


Prom out thy gloomy cells 


For are we not God's children both. 


A tale of mourning tells — 


Thou little sand-piper and I ? 


Tells of man's woe and fall, 


Celia Thaxtee. 


His sinless glory fled. 




Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight 
Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring 


^\\z doral (Bxone. 


Thy spirit never more. 


Deep in the wave is a coral grove, 


Come, quit with me the shore 


Where the purple mullet and gold-flsh rove ; 


For gladness, and the light 


Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of 


"Where birds of summer sing. 


blue 


KiCHABD Henbt Dana. 


That never are wet with falling dew, 




But in bright and changeful beauty shine 




Far down in the green and glassy brine. 


QClje 0anb-p;]cr. 


The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift. 




And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow ; 


Across the narrow beach we flit. 


From coral rocks the sea-plants lift 


One little sand-piper and I ; 


Their boughs, where the tides and billows 


And fast I gather, bit by bit. 


flow; 


The scattered di-ift-wood, bleached and dry. 


The water is calm and still below. 


The wild waves reach their hands for it. 


For the winds and waves are absent there. 


The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, 


And the sands are bright as the stars that glow 


As up and down the beach we flit — 


In the motionless fields of upper air. 


One little sand-piper and I. 


There, with its waving blade of green. 




The sea-flag streams through the silent water. 


Above our heads the sullen clouds 


And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 


Scud black and swift across the sky ; 


To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter. 


Like silent ghosts, in misty shrouds 


There, with a light and easy motion. 


Stand out the white light-houses nigh. 


The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep 


Almost as far as eye can reach. 


sea; 


I see the close-reefed vessels fly, 


And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 


As fast we flit along the beach — 


Are bending like corn on the upland lea. 


One little sand-piper and I. 


And life, in rare and beautiful forms. 




Is sporting amid those bowers of stone. 


I watch him as he skims along, 


And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms 


Uttering his sweet and mournful cry ; 


Has made the top of the wave his own. 


He starts not at my fitful song. 


And when the ship from his fury flies. 


Or flash of fluttering drapery : 


"Where the myriad voices of ocean roar. 


He has no thought of any wrong. 


When the wind-god frowns in the murky 


He scans me with a fearless eye ; 


skies. 


Staunch friends are we, well-tried and strong. 


And demons are waiting the wreck on shore ; 


This little sand-piper and I. 


Then, far below, in the peaceful sea. 




The purple mullet and gold-fish rove 


Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night, 


Where the waters murmur tranquilly. 


"When the loosed storm breaks furiously ? 


Through the bending twigs of the coral 


My drift-wood fire will burn so bright ! 


grove. 


To what warm shelter canst thou fly 1 


Jaites Gates Percival. 



72 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 

Sails the unshadowed main, — 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purple wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare. 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their stream- 
ing hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 

And every chambered cell, 
WTiere its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies revealed. 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt un- 
sealed ! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 

That spread his lustrous coil ; 

Still, as the spiral grew. 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new. 
Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 

Built up its idle door. 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old 
no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by 
thee, 
Child of the wandering sea, 
Cast from her lap forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 

While on mine ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice 
that sings : 

Build thee more stately mansions, my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll ! 

Leave thy low- vaulted past ! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last. 
Shut thee from heaven with a- dome more 
vast. 

Till thou at length art free. 

Leaving thine outgrown sheU by life's unresting 

sea! 

Oliveb Wendell Holmes. 



The sunlight glitters keen and bright, 

Where, miles away, 
Lies stretching to my dazzled sight 
A luminous belt, a misty light, 
Beyond the dark puie bluffs and wastes of sandy 
gray. 

The tremulous shadow of the sea ! 

Against its ground 
Of silvery light, rock, hiU, and tree, 
Still as a picture, clear and free. 
With A'arying outline mark the coast for miles 
around. 

On — on — we tread with loose-flung rein 

Our seaward way. 
Through dark-green fields and blossoming grain, 
Where the wild brier-rose skirts the lane. 
And bends above our heads the flowering-locust 
spray. . 

Ha ! like a kind hand on my brow 

Comes this fresh breeze, 
Cooling its dull and feverish glow. 
While through my being seems to flow 
The breath of a new life — the healing of the seas ! 

Now rest we, where this grassy mound 

His feet hath set 
In the great waters, which have bound 
His granite ankles greenly round 
With long and tangled moss, and weeds with cool 
spray v/et. 

Grood-bye to pain and care ! I take 

Mine ease to-day ; 
Here, where these sunny waters break, 
And ripples this keen breeze, I shake 
All burdens from the heart, all weary thoughts 
away. 

I draw a freer breath ; I seem 

Like all I see — 
Waves in the sun — the white-winged gleam 
Of sea-birds in the slanting beam — 
And far-off sails which flit before the south wind 
free. 



DRIFTING. 73 


So when Time's veil shall fall asunder, 


So then, beach, bluff, and wave, farewell I 


The soul may know 


I bear with me 


No fearful change, nor sudden wonder, 


No token stone nor glittering shell. 


Nor sink the weight of mysteiy under, 


But long and oft shall Memory tell 


But with the upward rise, and with the vastness 


Of this brief, thoughtful hour of musing by the 


grow. 


sea. John Gkbenleap Whittibr. 


And all we shrink from now may seem 




No new revealing — 


JUrifting. 


Familiar as our childhood's stream. 




Or pleasant memory of a dream. 


My soul to-day 


The loved and cherished Past upon the new life 


Is far away. 


stealing. 


Sailing the Vesuvian Bay ; 




My winged boat. 


Serene and mild, the untried light 


A bird afloat. 


May have its dawning ; 


Swims round the purple peaks remote ; 


And, as in Summer's northern light 
The evening and the dawn unite, 


Round purple peaks 
It sails and seeks 


The sunset hues of Time blend with the soul's new 


Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, 


morning. 


Where high rocks throw, 




Through deeps below, 


I sit alone ; in foam and spray 


A duplicated golden glow. 


Wave after wave 




Breaks on the rocks which, stern and gray, 


Far, vague, and dim 


Shoulder the broken tide away. 


The mountains swim ; 


Or murmurs hoai'se and strong through mossy cleft 


While on Vesuvius' misty brim, 


and cave. 


With outstretched hands, 




The gray smoke stands, 


What heed I of the dusty land 


O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 


And noisy town? 


Here Ischia smiles 


I see the mighty deep expand 


O'er liquid miles ; 


From its white line of glimmering sand 


And yonder, bluest of the isles. 


To where the blue of heaven on bluer waves shuts 


Calm Capri waits. 


down! 


Her sapphire gates 




Beguiling to her bright estates. 


In listless quietude of mind, 




I yield to all 


I heed not, if 


The change of cloud and wave and wind ; 


My rippling skiff 


O ' 

And passive on the flood reclined. 


Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff : 


I wander with the waves, and with them rise and 


With dreamful eyes 


fall. 


My spirit lies 




Under the walls of Paradise. 


But look, thou dreamer ! — wave and shore 


Under the walls 


In shadow lie ; 


Where swells and falls 


The night-wind warns me back once more 


The Bay's deep breast at intervals, 


To where my native hill-tops o'er 


At peace I lie. 


Bends like an arch of fire the glowing sunset 


Blown softly by, 


sky! 


A cloud upon this liquid sky. 



74 



FOE 31 S OF NATURE. 



The day, so mOd, 

Is Heaven's own child, 
With Earth and Ocean reconciled ; 

The airs I feel 

Around me steal 
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. 

Over the rail 

My hand 1 trail 
Within the shadow of the sail, 

A joy intense ; 

The cooling sense 
Glides down my drowsy indolence. 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Where Summer sings and never dies ; 

O'erveiled with vines. 

She glows and shines 
Among her future oil and wines. 

Her children, hid 

The cliffs amid, 
Are gambolling with the gambolling kid. 

Or down the walls, 

With tipsy calls. 
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. 

The fisher's child. 

With tresses wild. 
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled. 

With glowing lips 

Sings as he skips, 
Or gazes at the far-off ships. 

Yon deep bark goes 

Where traffic blows 
From lands of sun to lands of snows ; 

This happier one. 

Its course is run 
From lands of snow to lands of sun. 

happy ship, , 

To rise and dij). 
With the blue crystal at your lijo ! 

happy crew, 

My heart with you 
Sails, and sails, and sings anew ! 



No more, no more 

The worldly shore 
Upbraids me with its loud uproar ! 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of paradise ! 

Thomas Buchanan Eead. 

®o Scnera Cake. 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake. 
The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, 

And round his breast the ripples break, 
As down he bears before the gale. 

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, 

The dipping paddle echoes far. 
And flashes in the moonlight gleam, 

And bright reflects the polar star. 

The waves along thy pebbly shore, 

As blows the north-wind, heave their foam 

And curl around the dashing oar, 
As late the boatman hies him home. 

How sweet, at set of sun, to view 
Thy golden mirror spreading wide, 

And see the mist of mantling blue 
Float round the distant mountain's side. 

At midnight hour, as shines the moon, 

A sheet of silver spreads below, 
And swift she cuts, at highest noon. 

Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake, 
Oh ! I could ever sweep the oar, — 

When early birds at morning wake, 
And evening tells us toil is o'er. 

James Gates Pekcival,. 



From Stirling castle we had seen 

The mazy Forth unravelled ; 
Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, 

And with the Tweed had travelled ; 
And when we came to Clovenford, 

Then said my " winsome marrow : " 
" Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside. 

And see the braes of Yarrow." 




3 






FAEROW UNVISITED. 75 


" Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 


The ti-easured .dreams of times long past. 


Who have been buying, selling. 


We'll keep them, winsome marrow ! 


Go back to Yarrow ; 'tis their own — 


For when we're tliere, although 'tis fair, 


Each maiden to her dwelling ! 


'Twill be another Yarrow ! 


On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 




Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 


" If care with freezing years should come, 


But we will downward with the Tweed, 


And wandering seem but folly, — 


Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 


Should we be loth to stir from home, 




And yet be melancholy, — 


" There's Galla "Water, Leader Ilaughs, 


Should life be dull, and spirits low. 


Both lying right before us ; 


'Twill soothe us in our sorrow. 


And Drj'borough, where with chiming Tweed 


That earth has something yet to show — 


The lintwhites sing in chorus ; 


The bonny holms of Yarrow ! " 


There's pleasant Teviot-dale, a land 


WiLLiAJi Wordsworth. 


Made blithe with plough and harrow; 




Why throw away a needful day 




To go in search of Yarrow ? 


f orrotD bisiteb. 


" What's Yarrow biit a river bare, 


And is this — Yan-ow? — This the stream 


That glides the dark hills under? 


Of which my fancy cherished. 


There are a thousand such elsewhere. 


So faithfully, a waking dream ? 


As worthy of your wonder." 


An image that hath perished ! 


Strange words they seemed, of slight and scorn ; 


that some minstrel's harp were near. 


My true-love sighed for sorrow. 


To utter notes of gladness. 


And looked me in the face, to think 


And chase this silence from the air, 


I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 


That fills my heart with sadness ! 


" Oh, green," said I, " are Yarrow's holms 


Yet why ? — a silvery current flows 


And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 


With uncontrolled meanderings ; 


Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 


Nor have these eyes by greener hills 


But we will leave it growing. 


Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 


O'er hilly path, and open strath. 


And, through her depths, St. Mary's Lake 


We'll wander Scotland thorough ; 


Is visibly delighted ; 


But, though so near, we will not turn 


For not a feature of those hills 


Into the dale of Yarrow. 


Is in the mii-ror slighted. 


" Let beeves and homebred kine partake 


A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, 


The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; 


Save where that pearly whiteness 


The swan on still St. Mary's Lake 


Is round the rising sun diffused — 


Float double, swan and shadow ! 


A tender, hazy brightness ; 


We will not see them ; will not go 


Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 


To-day, nor yet to-morrow ; 


All profitless dejection ; 


Enough, if in our hearts we know 


Thoiigh not unwilling here to admit 


There's such a place as Yarrow. 


A pensive recollection. 


" Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ! 


Where was it that the famous Flower 


It must, or we shall rue it : 


Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? 


We have a vision of our own : 


His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 


Ah ! why should we undo it? 


On which the herd is feeding ; 



76 POEMS OF NATURE. 


And haply from this crystal pool, 


I see, — but not by sight alone. 


Now peaceful as the morning, 


Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; 


The water-wraith ascended thrice, 


A ray of fancy still survives, — 


And gave his doleful warning. 


Her sunshine plays upon thee ! 




Thy ever-youthful waters keep 


Delicious is the lay that sings 


A course of lively pleasure ; 


The haunts of happy lovers — 


And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 


The path that leads them to the grove, 


Accordant to the measure. 


The leafy grove that covers ; 




And pity sanctifies the verse 


The vapors linger round the heights ; 


That paints, by strength of sorrow, 


They melt, and soon must vanish ; 


The unconquerable strength of love : 


One hour is theirs, nor more is mine : 


Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! 


Sad thought, which I would banish, 




But that I know, where'er I go, 


But thou, that didst appear so fair 


Thy genuine image, Yarrow, 


To fond imagination, 


Will dwell with me, to heighten joy. 


Dost rival in the light of day 


And cheer my mind in sorrow. 


Her delicate creation. 


Wllliam Wordsworth. 


Meek loveliness is round thee spread — 




A softness still and holy. 




The grace of forest charms decayed. 




And pastoral melancholy. 


f arroro Hcoisitcir. 


That region left, the vale unfolds 


The gallant youth who may have gained, 


Rich groves of lofty stature. 


Or seeks, a " winsome marrow," 


With Yarrow winding through the pomp 


Was but an infant in the lap 


Of cultivated nature ; 


When first I looked on Yarrow ; 


And, rising from those lofty groves, 


Once more, by Newark's castle-gate. 


Behold a ruin hoary ! 


Long left without a warder. 


The shattered front of Newark's towers, 


I stood, looked, listened, and with thee. 


Renowned in border story. 


Great Minstrel of the Border ! 


Fair scenes for chUdhood's opening bloom. 


Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day. 


For sportive youth to stray in ; 


Their dignity installing 


For manhood to enjoy his strength, 


In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves 


And age to wear away in ! 


Were on the bough or falling ; 


Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss. 


But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed, 


A covert for protection 


The forest to embolden ; 


Of tender thoughts that nestle there, 


Reddened the fiery hues, and shot 


The brood of chaste afEection. 


Transparence through the golden. 


How sweet, on this autumnal day. 


For busy thoughts, the stream flowed on 


The wild-wood fruits to gather. 


In foamy agitation ; 


And on my true-love's forehead plant 


And slept in many a crystal pool 


A crest of blooming heather ! 


For quiet contemplation. 


And what if I inwreathed my own ! 


No public and no private care 


'Twere no offence to reason ; 


The freeborn mind enthralling. 


The sober hills thus deck their brows 


We made a day of happy hours. 


To meet the wintry season. 


Our happy days recalling. 



YAEROW REVISITED. 77 


Brisk Youth appeared, the morn of youth, 


And streams imknown, hills yet unseen. 


With freaks of graceful folly, — 


Wherever they invite thee, 


Life's temperate noon, her sober eve, 


At parent Nature's grateful call 


Her night not melancholy ; 


With gladness must requite thee. 


Past, present, future, all appeared 




In harmony united, 


A gracious welcome shall be thine — 


Like guests that meet, and some from far, 


Such looks of love and honor 


By cordial love invited. 


As thy own Yarrow gave to me 




When first I gazed upon her — 


And if, as Yarrow, through the woods 


Beheld what I had feared to see, 


And down the meadow ranging. 


UnwUling to surrender 


Did meet us with unaltered face. 


Dreams treasured up from early days 


Though we were changed and changing — 


The holy and the tender. 


If, then, some natural shadows spread 


And what, for this fraU. world, were all 


Our inward prospect over, 


That mortals do or suffer, 


The soul's deep valley was not slow 




Its brightness to recover. 


Did no responsive harp, no pen. 
Memorial tribute offer ? 


Eternal blessings on the Muse, 


Yea, what were mighty Nature's self — 


And her divine employment ! 
The blameless Muse, who trains her sons 


Her features, could they win us, 
Unhelped by the poetic voice 


For hope and calm enjoyment ; 


That hourly speaks within us ? 


Albeit siclvness, lingering yet, 


Nor deem that localized romance 


Has o'er their pillow brooded ; 


Plays false with our affections : 


And care waylays their steps, — a sprite 


Unsanctifies our tears, — made sport 


Not easily eluded. 


For fanciful dejections. 




Ah, no ! the visions of the past 


For thee, Scott ! compelled to change 


Sustain the heart in feeling 


Green Eildon HOI and Cheviot 


Life as she is, — our changeful life, 


For warm Vesu%ao's vine-clad slopes ; 


With friends and kindred dealing. 


And leave thy Tweed and Teviot 




For mild Sorrento's breezy waves ; 


Bear witness, ye, whose thoughts that day 


May classic fancy, linking 


In Yarrow's groves were centred ; 


With native fancy her fresh aid. 


Who through the silent portal arch 


Preserve thy heart from sinking ! 


Of mouldering Newark entered ; 




And clomb the winding stair that once 


0, while they minister to thee. 


Too timidly was mounted 


Each ■('ying with the other. 


By the " last Minstrel " (not the last !), 


May health return to mellow age. 


Ere he his tale recounted 1 


With strength, her venturous brother ; 




And Tiber, and each brook and rill 


Flow on for ever. Yarrow stream ! 


Eenowned in song and story. 


Fulfil thy pensive duty. 


With unimagined beauty shine, 


Well pleased that future bards should chant 


Nor lose one ray of glory ! 


For simple hearts thy beauty ; 




To dream-light dear while yet unseen, 


For thou, upon a hundred streams, 


Dear to the common sunshine. 


By tales of love and sorrow. 


And dearer still, as now I feel. 


Of faithful love, undaunted truth. 


To memory's shadowy moonshine ! 


Hast shed the power of Yarrow ; 


William Wokdsworth. 



P0E3IS OF NATURE. 



®n Eet)isiting tl}e Banks oi t[)e toge. 

Five years have passed; five summers, with the 

length 
Of five long winters ! and again I hear 
These waters, rolling from their mountain springs 
With a soft inland murmur. Once again 
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs. 
Which on a wild secluded scene impress 
Thoughts of more deep seclusion, and connect 
The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
The day is come when I again repose 
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
These plots of cottage ground, these orchard 

tufts. 
Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits. 
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 
Of sportive wood run wild ; these pastoral farms 
Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke 
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees 
With some uncertain notice, as might seem. 
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods. 
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire 
The hermit sits alone. 

These beauteous forms 
Through a long absence have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them. 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; 
And passing even into my purer mind 
With tranquil restoration : — feelings too 
Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps. 
As have no slight or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man's life, 
His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 
To them I may have owed another gift. 
Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood. 
In which the burthen of the mystery, 
In which the heavy and the weary weight 
Of all tliis unintelligible world. 
Is lightened : — that serene and blessed mood. 
In which the affections gently lead us on. 
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame. 



And even the motion of our human blood. 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
In body, and become a living soul : 
While with an eye made quiet by the power 
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy. 
We see into the life of things. 

If this 
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft, 
In darkness, and amid the many shapes 
Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, 
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 

sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer through the 

woods, 
How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 
And now, with gleams of half - extinguished 

thought. 
With many recognitions dim and faint, 
And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 
The picture of the mind revives again : 
Wlaile here I stand, not only with the sense 
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 
That in this moment there is life and food 
For future years. And so I dare to hope. 
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when 

first 

1 came among these hills ; when like a roe 
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams. 
Wherever Nature led : more like a man 
Flying from something that he dreads, than one 
Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature 

then 
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 
And their glad animal movements all gone by,) 
To me was all in all. I cannot paint 
What then I was. The sounding cataract 
Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock. 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
Their colors and their forms, were then to me 
An appetite : a feeling and a love. 
That had no need of a remoter charm, 
By thought supplied, or any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye. That time is past. 
And all its aching joys are now no more. 
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts 
Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, 



ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE. 



79 



Abundant recompense. For I have learned 

To look on Nature, not as in the hour 

Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 

The still, sad music of humanity. 

Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 

To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 

A presence that disturbs me with the joy 

Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 

Of something far more deeply interfused. 

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 

And the round ocean, and the living air, 

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : 

A motion and a spirit, that impels 

All thinking things, all objects of all thought. 

And rolls through all things. Therefore am 

1 still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods, 
And mountains ; and of aU that we behold 
From this green earth ; of all the mighty world 
Of eye and ear, both what they half create. 
And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 
In Nature and the language of the sense. 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
Of aU my moral being. 

Nor perchance, • 
If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay : 
For thou art with me, here, iipon the banks 
Of this fair river ; thou, my dearest Friend, 
My dear, dear Friend ; and in thy voice I 

catch 
The language of my former heart, and read 
My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 
May I behold in thee what I was once. 
My deai% dear Sister ! And this prayer I 

make. 
Knowing that Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege. 
Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
From joy to joy : for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men. 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor aU 
The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 



Our cheerful faith that all which we behold 

Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 

Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 

And let the misty mountain-winds be free 

To blow against thee : and, in after-years. 

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 

Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind 

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms. 

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 

For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then. 

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me. 

And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance. 

If I should be where I no more can hear 

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these 

gleams 
Of past existence, wilt thou then forget 
That on the banks of this delightful stream 
We stood together ; and that I, so long 
A worshipper of Nature, hither came. 
Unwearied in that service ; rather say 
With warmer love, oh ! with far deeper zeal 
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 
That after many wanderings, many years 
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, 
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake. 
William Wordsworth. 



Sweet, sweet, sweet, 
Is the wind's song, 
Astir in the rippled wheat 

All day long, 
It hath the brook's wild gayety, 
The sorro\vful cry of the sea. 
Oh, hush and hear ! 
Sweet, sweet, and clear. 
Above the locust's whirr 
And hum of bee 
Rises that soft, pathetic harmony. 

In the meadow-grass 

The innocent white daisies blow. 
The dandelion plume doth pass 

Vaguely to and fro — 



80 POEMS 01 


NATURE. 


The unquiet spirit of a flower, 


The leathery pears and apples 


That hath too brief an hour. 


Hang russet on the bough ; 


Now doth a little cloud all white, 


It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late. 


Or golden bright, 


'Twill soon be Winter now. 


Drift down the warm blue sky ; 


Robin, robin redbreast. 


And now on the horizon line 


Robin dear ! 


Where dusky -woodlands lie. 


And -what will this poor robin do ? 


A sunny mist doth shine, 


For pinching days are near. 


Like to a veil before a holy shrine, 




Concealing, half-revealing, things divine. 


The fireside for the cricket. 




The -wheat-stack for the mouse. 


Sweet, sweet, sweet, 


When trembling night-winds whistle 


Is the -wind's song. 


And moan all round the house. 


Astir in the rippled wheat 


The frosty -ways like iron. 


All day long. 


The branches plumed with snow, — 


That exquisite music calls 


Alas ! in Winter dead and dark, 


The reaper everywhere — 


Where can poor Robin go ? 


Life and death must share. 


Robin, robin redbreast. 


The golden harvest falls. 


Robin dear ! 




And a crumb of bread for Robin, 


So doth all end — 


His little heart to cheer. 


Honored philosophy. 


William Allingham. 


Science and art. 




The bloom of the heart ; 




Master, Consoler, Friend, 




Make Thou the harvest of our days 
To fall within thy -ways. 


^ Song for September. 


Ellen Mackat Hutchinson. 


September strews the woodland o'er 




With many a brilliant color ; 




The -world is brighter than before — 


Eobin Eebbreast. 


Why should our hearts be duller ? 
Sorrow and the scarlet leaf. 


Good-bye, good-bye to Summer ! 


Sad thoughts and sunny weather ! 


For Summer's nearly done ; 


Ah me ! this glory and this grief 


The garden smiling faintly. 


Agree not "weU together. 


Cool breezes in the sun ; 




Our thrushes now are silent. 


This is the parting season — this 


Our swallows flo-wn away, — 


The time when friends are flying ; 


But Eobin's here in coat of bro-wn, 


And lovers now, -with many a kiss, 


And scarlet breast-knot gay. 


Their long fare-wells are sighing. 


Robin, robin redbreast, 


Why is Earth so gayly drest ? 


Robin dear ! 


This pomp that Autumn beareth. 


Robin sings so sweetly 


A funeral seems, -where every guest 


In the falling of the year. » 


A bridal garment weareth. 


Bright yellow, red, and orange, 


Each one of iis, perchance, may here, 


The leaves come down in hosts ; 


On some blue mom hereafter, 


The trees are Indian princes. 


Return to view the gaudy year. 


But soon they'll turn to ghosts ; 


But not with boyish laughter. 



FIDELITY. 81 


We shall then be wrinkled men, 


Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud. 


Our brows with silver laden, 


And mists that spread the flying shroud ; 


And thou this glen mayst seek again. 


And sunbeams ; and the sounding blast. 


But nevermore a maiden ! 


That, if it could, would hurry past ; 




But that enormous barrier holds it fast. 


Nature perhaps foresees that Spring 




Will touch her teeming bosom, 


Not free from boding thoughts, awhile 


And that a few brief months will bring 


The shepherd stood ; then makes his way 


The bird, the bee, the blossom ; 


O'er rocks and stones, following the dog 


Ah! these forests do not know — 


As quickly as he may ; 


Or would less brightly wither — 


Nor far had gone before he found 


The virgin that adorns them so 


A human skeleton on the ground. 


Will never more come hither ! 


The appalled discoverer with a sigh 


Thomas William Pabsons. 


Looks round, to learn the history. 




From those abrupt and perilous rocks 




The man had fallen, that place of fear ! 


iibclita. 


At length upon the shepherd's mind 




It breaks, and all is clear. 


A BARKING sound the shepherd hears, 


He instantly recalled the name. 


A cry as of a dog or fox ; 


And who he was, and whence he came ! 


He halts, — and searches with his eyes 


Remembered, too, the very day 


Among the scattered rocks : 


On which the traveller passed this way. 


And now at distance can discern 




A stirring in a brake of fern ; 


But hear a wonder, for whose sake 


And instantly a dog is seen, 


This lamentable tale I tell ! 


Glancing through that covert green. 


A lasting monument of words 




This wonder merits well. 


The dog is not of mountain breed ; 


The dog, which still was hovering nigh. 


Its motions, too, are wild and shy — 


Repeating the same timid cry, 


With something, as the shepherd thinks. 


This dog had been through three months' space 


Unusual in its cry ; 


A dweller in that savage place. 


Nor is there any one in sight 




All round, in hollow or on height ; 


Yes, proof was plain that, since the day 


Nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear. 


When this ill-fated traveller died. 


What is the creature doing here ? 


The dog had watched about the spot. 




Or by his master's side. 


It was a cove, a huge recess. 


How nourished here through such long time 


That keeps, till June, December's snow ; 


He knows who gave that love sublime. 


A lofty precipice in front, 


And gave that strength of feeling, great 


A silent tarn below ! 


Above all human estimate ! 


Far in the bosom of Helvelljm, 


William Wobdswoeth. 


Eemote from public road or dwelling, 




Pathway, or cultivated land, — 




From trace of human foot or hand. 


SCo iHcaftotus. 


There sometimes doth a leaping fish 


Ye have been fresh and green ; 


Send through the tarn a lonely cheer ; 


Ye have been filled with fiowers ; 


The crags repeat the raven's croak 


And ye the walks have been 


In symphony austere ; 
8 


Where maids have spent their hours. 



82 P0E3IS OF NATURE. 


Ye have beheld where they 


Wind and frost, and hour and season. 


With wicker arks did come, 


Land and water, sun and shade — 


To kiss and bear away 


Work with these, as bids thy reason. 


The richer cowslips home ; 


For they work thy toil to aid. 


You've heard them sweetly sing, 


Sow thy seed, and reap in gladness ! 


And seen them in a round ; 


Man himself is all a seed ; 


Each virgin, like the Spring, 


Hope and hardship, joy and sadness — 


With honeysuckles crowned. 


Slow the plant to ripeness lead. 




John Sterling. 


But now we see none here 




Whose silvery feet did tread. 




And with dishevelled hair 




Adorned this smoother mead. 


^0 t\\t £nn%tb C^entian. 


Like unthrifts, having spent 


Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew. 


Your stock, and needy grown, 


And colored with the heaven's own blue, 


You're left here to lament 


That openest when the quiet light 


Your poor estates alone. 


Succeeds the keen and frosty night ; 


Egbert Hbreick. 


Thou comest not when violets lean 




O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen. 




Or columbines in purple dressed. 


Q[l)e j^usbanliinan. 


Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 


Earth, of man the bounteous mother. 


Thou waitest late, and com'st alone. 


Feeds him still with com and wine ; 


Wlien woods are bare and birds are flown, 


He who best would aid a brother. 


And frosts and shortening days portend 


Shares with him these gifts divine. 


The aged Year is near his end. 


Many a power within her bosom, 


Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 


Noiseless, hidden, works beneath ; 


Look through its fringes to the sky, 


Hence are seed, and leaf, and blossom, 


Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall 


Golden ear and clustered wreath. 


A flower from its cerulean wall. 


These to swell with strength and beauty 


I would that thus, when I shall see 


Is the royal task of man ; 


The hour of death draw near to me, 


Man's a king ; his throne is duty. 


Hope, blossoming within my heart, 


Since his work on earth began. 


May look to heaven as I depart. 


Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage — 


William Cullbn Bryant. 


These, like man, are fruits of earth ; 




Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage, • 




All from dust receive their birth. 


% Still 5Dag in Autumn. 


Barn and mill, and wine-vat's treasures. 


I LOVE to wander through the woodlands hoary. 


Earthly goods for earthly lives — 


In the soft gloom of an autumnal day. 


These are Nature's ancient pleasures ; 


When Summer gathers up her robes of glory, 


These her child from her derives. 


And, like a dream of beauty, glides away. 


What the dream, but vain rebelling, 


How, through each loved, familiar path she lingers. 


If from earth we sought to flee ? 


Serenely smiling through the golden mist, 


'Tis our stored and ample dwelling ; 


Tinting the wild grape with her dewy fingers. 


'Tis from it the skies we see. 


Till the cool emerald turns to amethyst ; 



CORNFIELDS. 



83 



Kindling the faint stars of the hazel, shining 
To light the gloom of Autumn's mouldering halls ; 

With hoary plumes the clematis entwining, 

Where, o'er the rock, her withered garland falls. 

Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning 
Beneath dark clouds along the horizon rolled. 

Till the slantsunbeams,throughtheirfriagesraining, 
Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold. 

The moist winds breathe of crisped leaves and 
flowers, 

In the damp hollows of the woodland sown, 
Mingling the freshness of autumnal showers 

With spicy airs from cedarn alleys blown. 

Beside the brook and on the umbered meadow, 
Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground, 

With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow, 
The gentian nods, in dreamy slumbers bound. 

Upon those soft, fringed lids the bee sits brooding, 
Like a fond lover loath to say farewell ; 

Or, with shut wings, through silken folds intruding. 
Creeps near her heart his drowsy tale to tell. 

The little birds upon the hUl-side lonely 
Flit noiselessly along from spray to spray,. 

Silent as a sweet, wandering thought, that only 
Shows its bright wings and softly glides away. 

Thescegtless flowers, in thewarm sunlight dreaming. 
Forget to breathe their fulness of delight ; 

And through the tranced woods soft au's are stream- 
ing, 
Still as the dew-fall of the Summer night. 

So, in my heart, a sweet, unwonted feeling 
Stirs, like the wind in Ocean's hollow shell, ' 

Through all its secret chambers sadly stealing. 
Yet finds no words its mystic charm to tell. 

Sabah Helen Whitman. 



(Hornficlbs. 

When on the breath of autumn breeze 
From pastures dry and brown. 

Goes floating like an idle thought 
The fan- white thistle-down. 

Oh then what joy to walk at will 

Upon the golden harvest hill ! 



What joy in dreamy ease to lie 

Amid a field new shorn. 
And see aU round on sunlit slopes 

The piled-up stacks of com : 
And send the fancy wandering o'er 
All pleasant harvest-fields of yore ! 

I feel the day — I see the field. 

The quivering of the leaves, 
And good old Jacob and his house 

Binding the yellow sheaves ; 
And at this very hour I seem 
To be with Joseph in his dream. 

I see the fields of Bethlehem, 

And reapers many a one. 
Bending unto their sickles' stroke ; 

And Boaz looking on ; 
And Ruth, the Moabite so fair. 
Among the gleaners stooping there. 

Again I see a little child. 

His mother's sole delight, — 
God's living gift of love unto 

The kind good Shunamite ; 
To mortal pangs I see him yield. 
And the lad bear him from the field. 

The sun-bathed quiet of the hills. 

The fields of Galilee, 
That eighteen hundred years ago 

Were full of corn, I see ; 
And the dear Saviour takes His way 
'Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath day. 

Oh, golden fields of bending corn. 

How beautiful they seem ! 
The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves. 

To me are like a dream. 
The sunshine and the very air 

Seem of old time, and take me there. 

Mart Howitt. 



^utttmn iTIotBcrs. 

Those few pale Autumn flowers. 

How beautiful they are ! 
Than all that went before, 
Than all the Summer store, 
How lovelier far ! 



84 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



And why ? — They are the last ! 

The last! the last! the last! 
Oh ! by that little word 
How many thoughts are stirred 

That whisper of the past ! 

Pale flowers ! pale perishing flowers ! 

Ye're types of precious things ; 
Types of those bitter moments, 
That flit, like life's enjoyments. 

On rapid, rapid wings : 

Last hours with parting dear ones 
(That Time the fastest spends), 

Last tears in silence shed. 

Last words half uttered, 
Last looks of dying friends. 

Who but would fain compress 

A life into a day, — 
The last day spent with one 
Who, ere the morrow's sun, 

Must leave us, and for aye ? 

precious, precious moments ! 
Pale flowers ! ye're types of those ; 

The saddest, sweetest, dearest, 
Because, like those, the nearest 
To an eternal close. 

Pale flowers ! pale perishing flowers ! 
I woo your gentle breath — 

1 leave the Summer rose 
For younger, blither brows ; 

Tell me of change and death ! 

Caeoline Bowles Southet. 



^\)e iDDeatli of tl)c £\axazx5. 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the 
year, 

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows 
brown and sere. 

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn 
leaves lie dead ; 

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rab- 
bit's tread. 



The robin and the wren are flown, and from the 

shrubs the Jay, 
And from the wood-top calls the crow through aU 

the gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers that 
lately sprang and stood 

In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sis- 
terhood ? 

Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race 
of flowers 

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and 
good of ours. 

The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold 
November rain 

Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely 
ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long 

ago, 
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the 

summer glow ; 
But on the hiU the golden-rod, and the aster in 

the wood, 
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn 

beauty stood. 
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as 

falls the plague on men. 
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from 

upland, glade, and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still 

such days wiU come. 
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their 

winter home ; 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though 

all the trees are still. 
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the 

rill, 
The south wind searches for the flowers whose 

fragrance late he bore. 
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the 

stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youthful 

beauty died. 
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by 

my side. 



THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 



85 



In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the for- 
ests cast the leaf, 

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life 
so brief ; 

Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young 
friend of ours. 

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the 

flowers. 

William Cullbn Bryant. 



Q[l)C punter of i\\z prairies. 

Ay, this is freedom — these pure skies 

Were never stained with village smoke ; 
The fragrant wind, that through them flies, 

Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke. 
Here, with my rifle and my steed. 

And her who left the world for me, 
I plant me where the red deer feed 

In the green desert — and am free. 

For here the fair savannas know 

No barriers in the bloomy grass ; 
Wherever breeze of heaven may blow. 

Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. 
In pastures measureless as air, 

The bison is my noble game ; 
The bounding elk, whose antlers tear 

The branches, falls before my aim. 

Mine are the river-fowl that scream 

Prom the long stripe of waving sedge ; 
The bear that marks my weapon's gleam 

Hides vainly in the forest's edge ; 
In vain the she-wolf stands at bay ; 

The brinded catamount, that lies 
High in the boughs to watch his prey, 

Even in the act of springing dies. 

With what free growth the elm and plane 

Fling their huge arms across my way — 
Gray, old, and cumbered with a train 

Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray ! 
Free stray the lucid streams, and find 

No taint in these fresh lawns and shades ; 
Free spring the flowers that scent the wind 

Where never scythe has swept the glades. 



Alone the fire, when frost-winds sere 

The heavy herbage of the ground. 
Gathers his annual harvest here — 

With roaring like the battle's sound. 
And hurrying flames that sweep the plain. 

And smoke-streams gushing up the sky. 
I meet the flames with flames again, 

And at my door they cower and die. 

Here, from dim woods, the aged Past 

Speaks solemnly ; and I behold 
The boundless Future in the vast 

And lonely river, seaward rolled. 
Who feeds its founts with rain and dew ? 

Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass. 
And trains the bordering vines whose blue 

Bright clusters tempt me as I pass ? 

Broad are these streams — my steed obeys. 

Plunges and bears me through the tide : 
Wide are these woods — I thread the maze 

Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. 
I hunt till day's last glimmer dies 

O'er woody vale and grassy height ; 
And kind the voice and glad the eyes 

That welcome my return at night. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe. 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
The birthplace of valor, the country of worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever 1 rove. 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 
Farewell to the mountains high covered with 

snow ; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ; 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here. 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 

Robert Burns. 



86 



POEMS OF NATVBE. 



^\)z punter's Song. 

Rise ! Sleep no more ! 'Tis a noble morn. 
The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn, 
And the frost shrinks back like a beaten 

hound, 
Under the steaming, steaming ground. 
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by, 
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky ! 
Our horses are ready and steady. — So, ho ! 
I'm gone, like a dart from the Tartar's bow. 
Hark, hark ! — Who calleth the maiden Morn 
From her sleep in the woods and the stubble 

corn? 

The horn, — the horn ! 
The merry, sweet ring of the hunter's horn. 

Now, through the copse where the fox is 

found. 
And over the stream at a mighty bound. 
And over the high lands and over the low, 
O'er furrows, o'er meadows, the hunters go ! 
Away ! — as a hawk flies full at his prey. 
So flieth the hunter, away, away ! 
From the burst at the cover till set of sun. 
When the red fox dies, and — the day is done. 
Hark, hark! — What sound on the wind is 

borne f 
'Tis the conquering voice of the hunter's horn : 

The horn, — the horn ! 
The merry, bold voice of the hunter's horn. 

Sound ! Sound the horn ! To the hunter good 
What's the gully deep or the roaring flood ? 
Eight over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds. 
At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds. 
Oh, what delight can a mortal lack. 
When he once is firm on his horse's back. 
With his stirrups short, and his snafile strong. 
And the blast of the horn for his morning 

song? 
Hark, hark ! — Now home ! and dream till 

morn •• 

Of the bold, sweet sound of the hunter's horn ! 

The horn, — the horn ! 

Oh, the sound of all sounds is the hunter's 

horn ! 

Babrt Cornwall. 



2[l)e Cast ^osc of Summer. 

'Tis the last rose of Summer 

Left blooming alone ; 
All her lovely companions 

Are faded and gone ; 
No flower of her kindred. 

No rosebud is nigh, 
To reflect back her blushes, 

Or give sigh for sigh ! 

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, 

To pine on the stem ; 
Since the lovely are sleeping. 

Go, sleep thou with them. 
Thus kindly 1 scatter 

Thy leaves o'er the bed 
Wliere thy mates of the garden 

Lie scentless and dead. 

So soon may I follow, 

When friendships decay, 
And from Love's shining circle 

The gems drop away ! 
When true hearts lie withered, 

And fond ones are flown. 
Oh ! who would inhabit 

This bleak world alone ? 



Thomas Moore. 



So Autumn. 

Season of mists and mellow f ruitf ulness ! 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ! 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
With fn.iit the vines that round the thatch -eaves 
run — 
To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees. 
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core — 
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel 
shells 
With a sweet kernel — to set budding, more 
And still more, later flowers for the bees. 
Until they think warm days wiU never cease. 

For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy 
cells. 



II 



THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 



87 



Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? 
Sometimes ■whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; 
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, 
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
Spares the next swath and all its twined 
flowers ; 
And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep 
Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 
Or by a cider-press, with patient look. 
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. 

Where are the songs of Spring f Ay, where are 
they? 
Think not of them — thou hast thy music too : 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day. 
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue : 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
Among the river saUows, borne aloft 

Or sinking, as the light wind lives or dies ; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 
Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft 
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, 
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 

John Keats. 



Autumn— a JDirige. 

The warm sun is failing ; the bleak wind is wailing ; 
The bare boughs are sighing ; the pale flowers are 
dying; 

And the Year 
On the earth, her death-bed, in shroud of leaves dead, 
Is lymg. 
Come, months, come away, 
Prom November to May ; 
In your saddest array 
Follow the bier 
Of the dead, cold Year, 
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. 

The chill rain is falling ; the nipt worm is crawling ; 
The rivers are swelling ; the thunder is knelling 

For the Year ; 
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each 
gone 

To his dwelling ; 



Come, months, come away ; 
Put on white, black, and gray ; 
Let your light sisters play — 
Ye, follow the bier 
Of the dead, cold Year, 
And make her grave green with tear on tear. 
Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



(Jlje ScnsitiDc plant. 

PART FIRST. 

A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew. 
And the young winds fed it with silver dew, 
And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light. 
And closed them beneath the kisses of night. 

And the Spring arose on the garden fair. 
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere ; 
And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast 
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. 

But none ever trembled and panted with bliss 
In the garden, the field, and the wilderness. 
Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want. 
As the companionless Sensitive Plant. 

The snowdrop, and then the violet, 
Arose from the ground with warm rain wet. 
And their breath was mixed with fresh odor, sent 
From the turf, like the voice and the instrument. 

Then the pied windflowers and the tulip taU, 
And narcissi, the fairest among them all 
Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess, 
Till they die of their own dear loveliness ; 

And the Naiad-like lily of the vale. 
Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale. 
That the light of its tremulous beUs is seen 
Through their pavilions of tender green ; 

And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, 
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew 
Of music so delicate, soft, and intense. 
It was felt like an odor within the sense ; 

And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest. 
Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, 
Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air 
The soul of her beauty and love lay bare ; 



88 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, 
As a Masnad, its moonlight-colored cup, 
Till the fieiy star, which is its eye. 
Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky ; 

And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose. 
The sweetest flower for scent that blows ; 
And all rare blossoms from every clime 
Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 

And on the stream whose inconstant bosom 
"Was prankt under boughs of embowering blossom. 
With golden and green light, slanting through 
Their heaven of many a tangled hue, 

Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, 

And starry river-buds glimmered by, 

And around them the soft stream did glide and 

dance 
With a motion of sweet sound and radiance. 

And the sinuous paths of lawn and moss. 
Which led through the garden along and across. 
Some open at once to the sun and the breeze. 
Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees. 

Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells 
As fair as the fabulous asphodels, 
And fiowrets which drooping as day drooped too 
Pell into pavilions, white, purple, and blue. 
To roof the glowworm from the evening dew. 

And from this undefiled Paradise 
The flowers (as an infant's awakening eyes 
Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet 
Can first lull, and at last must awaken it). 

When Heaven's blithe winds had unfolded them, 
As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem, 
Shone smiling to Heaven, and every one 
Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun ; 

For each one was interpenetrated 
With the light and the odor its neighbor shed. 
Like young lovers whom youth and love make dear 
Wrapped and filled by their mutual atmosphere. 

But the Sensitive Plant, which could give small fruit 
Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root, 
Received more than all, it loved more than ever. 
Where none wanted but it, could belong to the 
giver, 



For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower ; 
Radiance and odor are not its dower ; 
It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is fuU, 
It desires what it has not, the Beautiful ! 

The light winds which from unsustaining wings 
Shed the music of many murmurings ; 
The beams which dart from many a star 
Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar ; 

The plumed insects swift and free. 
Like golden boats on a sunny sea. 
Laden with light aiid odor, which pass 
Over the gleam of the living grass ; 

The unseen clouds of the dew, which lie 
Like fire in the flowers till the sun rides high, 
Then wander like spirits among the spheres, 
Each cloud faint with the fragrance it bears ; 

The quivering vapors of dim noontide. 
Which like a sea o'er the warm earth glide, 
In which every sound, and odor, and beam, 
Move, as reeds in a single stream ; 

Each and all like ministering angels were 
For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear. 
Whilst the lagging hours of the day went by 
Like windless clouds o'er a tender sky. 

And when evening descended from Heaven above, 
And the Earth was all rest, and the air was all love, 
And delight, though less bright, was far more deep. 
And the day's veil fell from the world of sleep, 

And the beasts, and the birds, and the insects were 

drowned 
In an ocean of dreams without a sound : 
Wliose waves never mark, though they ever impress 
The light sand which paves it, consciousness ; 

(Only over head the sweet nightingale 
Ever sang more sweet as the day might fail. 
And snatches of its Elysian chant 
Were mixed with the dreams of the Sensitive 
Plant). 

The Sensitive Plant was the earliest 
Up-gathered into the bosom of rest ; 
A sweet child weary of its delight. 
The feeblest and yet the favorite. 
Cradled within the embrace of night. 



THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 



89 



PART SECOXD. 

There was a Power in this sweet place, 
An Eve in this Eden ; a ruling grace 
Which to the flowers did they waken or dream, 
Was as God is to the starry scheme. 

A Lady, the wonder of her kind, 
Whose form was upborne by a lovely mind 
Which, dilating, had moulded her mien and motion 
Like a sea-flower unfolded beneath the ocean. 

Tended the garden from morn to even : 
And the meteors of that sublunar heaven, 
Like the lamps of the air when night walks forth. 
Laughed round her footsteps up from the Earth ! 

She had no companion of mortal race. 

But her tremulous breath and her flushing face 

Told, whilst the moon kissed the sleep from her 

eyes. 
That her dreams were less slumber than Paradise : 

As if some bright Spirit for her sweet sake 
Had deserted heaven while the stars were awake. 
As if yet around her he lingering were. 
Though the veil of daylight concealed him from 
her. 

Her step seemed to pity the grass it prest ; 
You might hear by the heaving of her breast. 
That the coming and going of the wind 
Brought pleasure there and left passion behind. 

And wherever her airy footstep trod. 
Her trailing hair from the grassy sod 
Erased its light vestige, with shadowy sweep. 
Like a sunny storm o'er the dark green deep. 

I doubt not the flowers of that garden sweet 
Rejoiced in the sound of her gentle feet ; 
I doubt not they felt the spirit that came 
From her glowing fingers through all their frame. 

She sprinkled bright water from the stream 
On those that were faint with the sunny beam ; 
And out of the cups of the heavy flowers 
She emptied the rain of the thunder showers. 

She lifted their heads with her tender hands. 
And sustained them with rods and osier bands ; 
If the flowers had been her own infants she 
Could never have nursed them more tenderly. 



And all killing insects and gnawing worms. 
And things of obscene and unlovely forms, 
She bore in a basket of Indian woof, 
Into the rough woods far aloof. 

In a basket, of grasses and wild flowers full, 
The freshest her gentle hands could pull 
For the poor banished insects, whose intent. 
Although they did ill, was innocent. 

But the bee and the beamlike ephemeris 

Whose path is the lightning's, and soft moths that 

kiss 
The sweet lips of the flowers, and harm not, did she 
Make her attendant angels be. 

And many an antenatal tomb, 
Wliere butterflies dream of the life to come. 
She left clinging round the smooth and dark 
Edge of the odorous cedar bark. 

This fairest creature from earliest spring 
Thus moved through the garden ministering 
All the sweet season of summer tide. 
And ere the first leaf looked brown — she died ! 

PART THIRD. 

Three days the fiowers of the garden fair. 
Like stars when the moon is awakened, were, 
Or the waves of BaiiB, ere luminous 
She floats up through the smoke of Vesuvius. 

And on the fourth, the Sensitive Plant 
Felt the sound of the funeral chant. 
And the steps of the bearers, heavy and slow. 
And the sobs of the mourners deep and low ; 

The weary sound and the heavy breath, 
And the sUent motions of passing death. 
And the smell, cold, oppi'essive, and dank. 
Sent through the pores of the cofiin plank ; 

The dark grass, and the flowers among the grass. 
Were bright with tears as the crowd did pass ; 
Prom their sighs the wind caught a mournful tone. 
And sate in the pines, and gave groan for groan. 

The garden, once fair, became cold and foul, 
Like the corpse of her who had been its soul, 
Wliich at first was lively as if in sleep. 
Then slowly changed, till it grew a heap 
To make men tremble who never weepi. 



90 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Swift summer into the autumn jlowed, 
And frost in the mist of the morning rode, 
Though the noonday sun looked clear and bright, 
Mocking the spoil of the secret night. 

The rose leaves, like flakes of crimson now, 
Paved the turf and tlie moss below. 
The lilies were drooping, and white, and wan. 
Like the head and the skin of a dying man. 

And Indian plants, of scent and hue 
The sweetest that ever were fed on dew, 
Leaf after leaf, day after day. 
Were massed into the common clay. 

And the leaves, brown, yellow, and gray, and 

red, 
And white with the whiteness of what is dead. 
Like troops of ghosts on the dry wind past ; 
Their whistling noise made the birds aghast. 

And the gusty winds waked the winged seeds. 

Out of their birthplace of ugly weeds. 

Till they clung round many a sweet flower's 

stem. 
Which rotted into the earth with them. 

The water-blooms under the rivulet 
Fell from the stalks on whicli they were set ; 
And the eddies drove them here and there, 
As the winds did those of the upper air. 

Then the rain came down, and the broken stalks, 
Were bent and tangled across the walks ; 
And the leafless network of parasite bowers 
Massed into ruin ; and all sweet flowers. 

Between the time of the wind and the snow, 

All loathliest weeds began to grow. 

Whose coarse leaves were splashed with many a 

speck. 
Like the water-snake's belly and the toad's back. 

And thistles, and nettles, and darnels rank, 
And the dock, and henbane, and hemlock dank. 
Stretched out its long and hollow shank, 
And stifled the air till the dead wind stank. 

And plants, at whose names the verse feels loath. 
Filled the place with a monstrous undergrowth, 
Prickly, and pulpous, and blistering, and blue, 
Livid, and starred with a lurid dew. 



And agarics and fungi, with mildew and mould 
Started like mist from the wet ground cold ; 
Pale, fleshy, as if the decaying dead 
With a spirit of growth had been animated ! 

Their moss rotted ofE them, flake by flake. 

Tin the thick stalk stuck like a murderer's 

stake. 
Where rags of loose flesh yet tremble on high, 
Infecting the winds that wander by. 

Spawn, weeds, and filth, a leprous scum. 
Made the running Tivulet thick and dumb, 
And at its outlet flags huge as stakes 
Dammed it up with roots knotted like water- 
snakes. 

And hour by hour, when the air was still. 
The vapors arose which have strength to kill : 
At morn they were seen, at noon they were felt, 
At night they were darkness no star could melt. 

And unctuous meteors from spray to spray 
Crept and flitted in broad noonday 
Unseen ; every branch on which they alit 
By a venomous blight was burned and bit. 

The Sensitive Plant like one forbid 
Wept, and the tears within each lid 
Of its folded leaves which together grew 
Were changed to a blight of frozen glue. 

For the leaves soon fell, and the branches soon 
By the heavy axe of the blast were hewn ; 
The sap shrank to the root through every pore, 
As blood to a heart that will beat no more. 

For Winter came : the wind was his whip ; 
One choppy flnger was on his lip : 
He had torn the cataracts from the hills. 
And they clanked at his girdle like manacles ; 

His breath was a chain which without a sound 
The earth, and the air, and the water bound ; 
He came, fiercely driven, in his chariot-throne 
By the tenfold blasts of the arctic zone. 

Then the weeds which were forms of living 

death 
Fled from the frost to the earth beneath. 
Their decay and sudden flight from frost 
Was but like the vanishing of a ghost ! 



A FORSAKEN GARDEN. 



91 



And under the roots of the Sensitive Plant 
The moles and the dormice died for want : 
The birds dropped stiff from the frozen air 
And were caught in the branches naked and bare. 

First thex'B came down a thawing rain, 
And its dull drops froze on the boughs again, 
Then there steamed up a freezing dew 
Which to the drops of the thaw-rain grew ; 

And a northern whirlwind, wandering about 
Like a wolf that had smelt a dead child out. 
Shook the boughs thus laden, and heavy and stiff, 
And snapped them off with his rigid griff. 

When Winter had gone and Spring came back. 

The Sensitive Plant was a leafless wreck ; 

But the mandrakes, and toadstools, and docks, and 

darnels. 
Rose like the dead from their ruined charnels. 

CONCLUSION. 

Wliether the Sensitive Plant, or that 
Which within its boughs like a spirit sat 
Ere its outward form had known decay, 
Now felt this change, I cannot say. 

Whether that lady's gentle mind. 
No longer with the form combined 
Which scattered love, as stars do light, 
Pound sadness, where it left delight, 

I dare not guess ; but in this life 
Of error, ignorance, and strife. 
Where nothing is, but all things seem, 
And we the shadows of the dream, 

It is a modest creed, and yet 
Pleasant if one considers it. 
To own that death itself must be, 
Like all the rest, a mockery. 

That garden sweet, that lady fair. 
And all sweet shapes and odors there. 
In truth have never passed away : 
'Tis we, 'tis ours, are changed-; not they. 

For love, and beauty, and delight. 
There is no death nor change : their might 
Exceeds our organs, which endure 
No light, being themselves obscure. 

Perot Btsshe Shellet. 



^ iToreakcn ®arbcn. 

In a coign of the cliff between lowland and high- 
land, 
At the sea-down's edge between windward and 
lee. 
Walled round with rocks as an inland island, 

The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. 
A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses 

The steep square slope of the blossomless bed 
Where the weeds that grew green from the graves 
of its roses 

Now lie dead. 

The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken. 
To the low last edge of the long lone land. 
If a step should sound or a word be spoken. 
Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's 
hand? 
So long have the gray bare walks lain guestless. 

Through branches and briers if a man make way, 
He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, restless 
Night and day. 

The dense hard passage is blind and stifled 

That crawls by a track none turn to climb 
To the strait waste place that the years have rifled 
Of all but the thorns that are touched not of 
time. 
The thorns he spares when the rose is taken ; 

The rocks are left when he wastes the plain. 
The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken, 
These remain. 

Not a flower to be pressed of the foot that falls not ; 
As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are 
dry; 
From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale 

calls not. 
Could she call, there were never a rose to reply. 
Over the meadows that blossom and wither 

Rings but the note of a sea-bird's song ; 
Only the sun and the rain come hither 
All year long. 

The sun bums sere and the rain dishevels 
One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath. 

Only the wind here hovers and revels 
In a round where life seems barren as death. 



93 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping, 

Haply of lovers none ever will know, 
Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping 
Years ago. 

Heart handfast in heart as they stood, "Look 
thither," 
Did he whisper ? " Look forth from the flowers 
to the sea ; 
For the foam flowers endure when the rose-blos- 
soms wither, 
And men that love lightly may die — but we? 
And the same wind sang and the same waves 
whitened. 
And or ever the garden's last petals were shed, 
In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had 
lightened, 

Love was dead. 

Or they loved their life through, and then went 
whither ? 
And were one to the end — but what end, who 
knows ? 
Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither. 

As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose. 
Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love 
them? 
What love was ever as deep as a grave ? 
They are loveless now as the grass above them, 
Or the wave. 

All are at one now, roses and lovers. 
Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the 
sea. 
Not a breath of the time that has been hovers 

In the air now soft with a summer to be. 
Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons here- 
after 
Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or 
weep. 
When as they that are free now of weeping and 
laughter 

We shall sleep. 

Here death may deal not again for ever ; 

Here change may come not till all change end. - 
From the graves they have made they shall rise up 
never. 

Who have left naught living to ravage and rend. 



Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground 
growing. 
While the sun and the rain live, these shall be ; 
Till a last wind's breath upon all these blowing 
Roll the sea. 

Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble. 
Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink. 
Till the strength of the waves of the high tides 
humble 
The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink, 
Here now in his triumph where all things falter. 
Stretched out oii the spoils that his own hand 
spread. 
As a god self -slain on his own strange altar, 
Death lies dead. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



3:1)0 itatter Hain. 

The latter rain, — it falls in anxious haste 
Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare, 
Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste 
As if it would each root's lost strength repair ; 
But not a blade grows green as in the Spring ; 
No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves ; 
The robins only mid the harvests sing. 
Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves ; 
The rain falls still, — the fruit all ripened drops. 
It pierces chestnut-burr and walnut-shell ; 
The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops ; 
Each bursting pod of talents used can tell ; 
And all that once received the early rain 
Declare to man it was not sent in vain. 

Jones Vert. 

The Autumn is old ; 

The sere leaves are flying ; 
He hath gathered up gold, 

And now he is dying : 

Old age, begin sighing ! 

The vintage is ripe ; 
The harvest is heaping ; 
- But some that have sowed 
Have no riches for reaping : 
Poor wretch, fall a-weeping ! 



AUTUMN'S SIGEINO: 



93 



The year's in the wane ; 

There is nothing adorning ; 
The night has no eve, 

And the day has no morning ; 

Cold winter gives warning. 

The rivers run chill ; 

The red sun is sinking ; 
And I am grown old, 

And life is fast shrinking ; 

Here's enow for sad thinking ! 

Thomas Hood. 



Atjtusin's sighing, 
Moaning, dying ; 
Clouds are flying 

On like steeds ; 
While their shadows 
O'er the meadows 
Walk like widows 

Decked in weeds. 

Red leaves trailing, 
Fall unfailing, 
Dropping, sailing. 

From the wood, 
That, unpliant. 
Stands defiant, 
Like a giant 

Dropping blood. 

Winds are swelling 
Round our dwelling. 
All day telling 

Us their woe ; 
And at vesper 
Frosts grow crisper, 
As they whisper 

Of the snow. 

From th' unseen land 
Frozen inland, 
Down from Greenland 

Winter glides. 
Shedding lightness 
Like the brightness 
When moon-whiteness 

Fills the tides. 



Now bright Pleasure's 
Sparkling measures 
With rare treasures 

Overflow ! 
With this gladness 
Comes what sadness ! 
Oh, what madness ! 

Oh, what woe ! 

Even merit 
May inherit 
Some bare garret. 

Or the ground : 
Or, a worse ill. 
Beg a morsel 
At some door-sill. 

Like a hound ! 

Storms are trailing ; 
Winds are wailing. 
Howling, railing 

At each door. 
'Midst this trailing, 
Howling, railing, 
List the wailing 

Of the poor ! 

Thomas Btjchanan Eeab. 



Oh ! a dainty plant is the Ivy green. 

That creepeth o'er ruins old ! 
Of right choice food are his meals, 1 ween. 

In his cell so lone and cold. 
The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, 

To pleasure his dainty whim ; 
And the mouldering dust that years have made 

Is a merry meal for him. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, 

And a staunch old heart has he ! 
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings, 

To his friend the huge oak-tree ! 
And slyly he traileth along the ground. 

And his leaves he gently waves. 
And he joyously twines and hugs around 

The rich mould of dead men's graves. 



94 P0E3IS OF NATURE. 


Creeping where no life is seen, 


As circles on a smooth canal. 


A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 


The mountains round, unhappy fate ! 




Sooner or later, of all height, 


Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed. 


Withdraw their summits from the skies. 


And nations have scattered been ; 


And lessen as the others rise. 


But the stout old Ivy shall never fade 


Still the prospect wider spreads. 


From its hale and hearty green. 


Adds a thousand woods and meads ; 


The brave old plant in its lonely days 


StiU it widens, widens still, 


Shall fatten upon the past ; 


And sinks the newly-risen hill. 


For the stateliest buUding man can raise 


Now I gain the mountain's brow ; 


Is the Ivy's food at last. 


What a landscape lies below ! 


Creeping where no life is seen, 


No clouds, no vapors intervene ; 


A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 


But the gay, the open scene 


Chaelbs Dickens. 


Does the face of Nature show 




In aU the hues of heaven's bow ! 




And, swelling to embrace the light. 


%xan%ax fill. 


Spreads around beneath the sight. 
Old castles on the cliffs arise, 


Silent nymph, with curious eye. 


Proudly towering in the skies ; 


Who, the purple evening, lie 


Rushing from the woods, the spires 


On the mountain's lonely van, 


Seem from hence ascending fires ; 


Beyond the noise of busy man — 


Half his beams Apollo sheds 


Painting fair the form of things. 


On the yellow mountain-heads, 


While the yellow linnet sings, 


Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, 


Or the tuneful nightingale 


And glitters on the broken rocks. 


Charms the forest with her tale — 


Below me trees unnumbered rise. 


Come, with aU thy various hues. 


Beautiful in various dyes : 


Come, and aid thy sister Muse. 


The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, 


Now, while Phoebus, riding high, 


The yellow beech, the sable yew, 


Gives lustre to the land and sky. 


The slender fir that taper grows, 


Grongar Hill invites my song — 


The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs ; 


Draw the landscape bright and strong ; 


And beyond, the purple grove, 


Grongar, in whose mossy cells 


Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love ! 


Sweetly musing Quiet dwells ; 


Gaudy as the opening dawn, 


Grongar, in whose silent shade, 


Lies a long and level lawn. 


For the modest Muses made. 


On which a dark hill, steep and high. 


So oft I have, the evening stiU, 


Holds and charms the wandering eye ; 


At the fountain of a rill, 


Deep are his feet in Towy's flood : 


Sat upon a flowery bed, 


His sides are clothed with waving wood : 


With my hand beneath my head. 


And ancient towers crown his brow. 


While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood, 


That cast an awful look below ; 


Over mead and over wood. 


Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps. 


From house to house, from hill \o hill. 


And with her arms from falling keeps ; 


Till Contemplation had her fill. 


So both, a safety from the wind 


About his checkered sides I wind. 


In mutual dependence find. 


And leave his brooks and meads behind, 


'Tis now the raven's bleak abode ; 


And groves and grottoes where I lay, 


'Tis now th' apartment of the toad ; 


And vistas shooting beams of day. 


And there the fox securely feeds ; 


Wide and wider spreads the vale, 


And there the poisonous adder breeds, 



GRONGAR HILL. 95 


Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds ; 


And never covet what I see ; 


While, ever and anon, there fall 


Content me with an humble shade, 


Huge heaps of hoary, mouldered wall. 


My passions tamed, my wishes laid ; 


Yet Time has seen — that lifts the low 


For while our wishes wildly roll. 


And level lays the lofty brow — 


We banish quiet from the soul. 


Has seen this broken pUe complete, 


'Tis thus the busy beat the air, 


Big with the vanity of state. 


And misers gather wealth and care. 


But transient is the smile of Fate ! 


Now, even now, my joys run high, 


A little rule, a little sway, 


As on the mountain turf I lie ; 


A sunbeam in a winter's day, 


Wliile the wanton Zephyr sings. 


Is all the proud and mighty have 


And in the vale perfumes his wings ; 


Between the cradle and the grave. 


While the waters murmur deep ; 


And see the rivers, how they run 


While the shepherd charms his sheep ; 


Through woods and meads, in shade and sun. 


While the birds unbounded fiy, 


Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, 


And with music fill the sky. 


Wave succeeding wave, they go 


Now, even now, my joys run high. 


A various journey to the deep. 


Be full, ye courts ; be great who will ; 


Like human life to endless sleep ! 


Search for Peace with all your skill ; 


Thus is Nature's vesture wrought 


Open wide the lofty door. 


To instruct our wandering thought ; 


Seek her on the marble floor. 


Thus she dresses green and gay 


In vain you search ; she is not here I 


To disperse our cares away. 


In vain you search the domes of Care ! 


Ever charming, ever new. 


Grass and flowers Quiet treads, 


When wUl the landscape tire the view ! 


On the meads and mountain-heads, 


The fountain's fall, the river's flow ! 


Along with Pleasure — close allied. 


The woody valleys, warm and low ; 


Ever by each other's side ; 


The windy summit, wild and high, 


And often, by the murmuring rill. 


Roughly rushing on the sky ; 


Hears the thrush, while all is still 


The pleasant seat, the ruined tower. 


Within the groves of Grongar Hill. 


The naked rock, the shady bower ; 


John Dteb. 


The town and village, dome and farm — 




Each gives each a double charm, 




As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm. 


"^OMZxabct. 


See on the mountain's southern side, 




Where the prospect opens wide, 


The mellow year is hasting to its close ; 


Where the evening gilds the tide. 


The little birds have almost sung their last, 


How close and small the hedges lie ; 


Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast — 


What streaks of meadow cross the eye ! 


That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows ; 


A step, methinks, may pass the stream, 


The patient beauty of the scentless rose, 


So little distant dangers seem ; 


Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed. 


So we mistake the Future's face. 


Hangs a pale mourner for the summer past, 


Eyed through Hope's deluding glass ; 


And makes a little summer where it grows, 


As yon summits, soft and fair. 


In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day 


Clad in colors of the air. 


The dusky waters shudder as they shine ; 


Wliich, to those who journey near, 


The russet leaves obsti'uct the straggling way 


Barren, brown, and rough appear ; 


Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define ; 


Still we tread the same coarse way — 


And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, 


The present's still a cloudy day. 


Wrap theii- old limbs with sombre ivy twine. 


Oh may I with myself agree. 


Hartley Coleridge. 



96 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



ifolbing \\)z iTlorka. 

Shepherds all, and maidens fair, 

Fold your ilocks up ; for the air 

'Gins to thicken, and the sun 

Already his great course hath run. 

See the dew-drops, how they kiss 

Every little flower that is : 

Hanging on their velvet heads. 

Like a string of crystal beads. 

See the heavy clouds low falling 

And bright Hesperus down calling 

The dead night from under ground ; 

At whose rising, mists unsound, 

Damps and vapors, fly apace, 

And hover o'er the smiling face 

Of these pastures ; where they come, 

Striking dead both bud and bloom. 

Therefore from such danger lock 

Every one his loved flock ; 

And let your dogs lie loose without, 

Lest the wolf come as a scout 

Prom the mountain, and, ere day, 

Bear a lamb or kid away ; 

Or the crafty, thievish fox. 

Break upon your simple flocks. 

To secure yourself from these. 

Be not too secure in ease ; 

So shall you good shepherds prove, 

And deserve your master's love. 

Now, good night ! may sweetest slumbers 

And soft sUence fall in numbers 

On your eyelids. So farewell : 

Thus I end my evening kneU. 

BEAtrilONT AND FlBTCHEB. 



©ugle Song. 

The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story ; 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow ! set the wild echpes flying ; 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes — dying, dying, dying! 

Oh hark, oh hear ! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, further going ! 

sweet and far, from cliff and scar. 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 



Blow ! let us hear the purple glens replying ; 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes — dying, dying, dying ! 

love, they die in yon rich sky ; 

They faint on hill or field or river : 
Our ecnoes roll from soul to soul. 
And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow ! set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer — dying, dying, dying ! 

Alpeed Tennyson. 



Wc)t QEtJening tDinb. 



Spirit that breathest through my lattice ! thou 
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day ! 

Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow ; 
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, 

Riding all day the wild blue waves tUl now. 
Roughening their crests, and scattering high 
their spray. 

And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee 

To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea ! 

Nor I alone — a thousand bosoms round 
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; 

And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; 

And languishing to hear thy welcome sound, 
Lies the vast inland, stretched beyond the 
sight. 

Go forth into the gathering shade ; go forth — 

God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! 

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest ; 

Curl the still waters, bright with stars; and 
rouse 
The wide, old wood from his majestic rest, 

Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, 
The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast. 

Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows 
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass. 
And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the 
grass. 

Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway 
The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone ; 

That they who near the churchyard wUlows 
stray. 
And listen in the deepening gloom, alone, 



ODE TO EVENING. 



97 



May think of gentle souls that passed away, 

Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown, 
Sent forth from heaven among the sons of 

men, 
And gone into the boundless heaven again. 

The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, 

And dry the moistened ciuis that overspread 
His temples, while his breathing grows more 
deep ; 

And they who stand about the sick man's bed 
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep. 

And softly part his curtains to allow 

Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 

Go — but the circle of eternal change, 
Which is the life of Nature, shall restore. 

With sounds and scents from all thy mighty 
range. 
Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more. 

Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange. 
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore ; 

And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem 

He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 

William Cullen Brtant. 



Sweet after showers, ambrosial air. 
That rollest from the gorgeous gloom 
Of evening over brake and bloom 

And meadow, slowly breathing bare 

The round of space, and rapt below. 
Through all the dewy-tasselled wood, 
And shadowing down the horned flood 

In ripples, fan my brows and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 
The full new life that feeds thy breath 
Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death, 

HI brethren, let the fancy fly 

From belt to belt of crimson seas. 

On leagues of odor streaming far, 

To where, in yonder orient star, 
A hundred spirits whisper " Peace ! " 

Alfred Tenktson. 



®be to (Etjening. 

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, 

May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, 

Like thy own brawling springs, 

Thy springs and dying gales — 

Nymph reserved while now the bright-haired 

Sun 
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, 

With brede ethereal wove, 

O'erhang his wavy bed : 

Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed 

bat 
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing ; 

Or where the beetle winds 

His small but sullen horn. 

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path. 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum ; 

Now teach me, maid composed. 

To breathe some softened strain, 

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening 

vale. 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit ; 

As, musing slow, I hail 

Thy genial, loved return ! 

For when thy folding star arising shows 
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 

The fragrant Hours, and elves 

Who slept in buds the day. 

And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with 

sedge. 
And sheds the freshening dew ; and lovelier still. 

The pensive pleasures sweet. 

Prepare thy shadowy car. 

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene ; 
Or find some ruin, 'midst its dreary dells. 

Whose walls more awful nod 

By thy religious gleams. 

Or, if chiU blustering winds, or driving rain. 
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut 

That from the mountain's side. 

Views wilds, and swelling floods. 



98 POEMS OF NATURE. 


And hamlets brown, and dim discovered spires : 


Invisible ; the ear alone 


And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er 


Pursues the uproar till it dies ; 


all 


Echo to echo, groan for groan, 


Thy dewy fingers draw 


From deep to deep replies. 


The gradual dusky veil. 






Silence again the darkness seals, 


While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he 


Darkness that may be felt ; — but soon 


wont. 


The silver-clouded east reveals 


And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve ! 


The midnight spectre of the moon. 


While Summer loves to sport 


In half-eclipse she lifts her horn, 


Beneath thy lingering light ; 


Yet o'er the host of heaven supreme 




Brings the faint semblance of a morn, 


While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves ; 


With her awakening beam. 


! Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, 




Affrights thy shrinking train, 


Ah ! at her touch, these Alpine heights 


And rudely rends thy robes ; 


Unreal mockeries appear ; 




With blacker shadows, ghastlier lights. 


So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, 


Emerging as she climbs the sphere ; 


Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, 


A crowd of apparitions pale ! 


Thy gentlest influence own, 


I hold my breath in chill suspense — 


And love thy favorite name ! 


They seem so exqi^isitely frail — 


WnxiAJi CoLLrNs. 


Lest they should vanish hence. 




I breathe again, I freely breathe ; 




Thee, Leman's Lake, once more I trace. 


©ceiling in tl)e %[t^5. 


Like Dian's crescent far beneath. 




As beautiful as Dian's face : 


Come, golden Evening ; in the west 


Pride of the land that gave me birth ! 


Enthrone the storm-dispelling sun. 


All that thy waves reflect I love. 


And let the triple rainbow rest 


Where heaven itself, brought down to earth. 


O'er all the mountain-tops. 'Tis done ; 


Looks fairer than above. 


The tempest ceases ; bold and bright. 




The rainbow shoots from hill to hill ; 


Safe on thy banks again I stray ; 


Down sinks the sun ; on presses night ; 


The trance of poesy is o'er, 


Mont Blanc is lovely still ! 


And I am here at dawn of day, 




Gazing on mountains as before. 


There take thy stand, my spirit ; spread 


Where all the strange mutations wrought 


The world of shadows at thy feet ; 


Were magic feats of my own mind ; 


And mark how calmly, overhead, 


For, in that faiiy land of thought, 


The stars, like saints in glory, meet. 


Whate'er I seek, I flnd. 


While hid in solitude sublime. 




Methinks I muse on Nature's tomb, 


Yet, ye everlasting hills ! 


And hear the passing foot of Time 


Buildings of God, not made with hands, 


Step through the silent gloom. 


Whose word performs whate'er He wills. 




Whose word, though ye shall perish, stands ; 


All in a moment, crash on crash, 


Can there be eyes that look on you, 


From precipice to precipice 


Till tears of rapture make them dim, 


An avalanche's ruins dash 


' Nor in his works the Maker view, 


Down to the nethermost abyss. 


Then lose his works in Him ? 



TO NIGHT. 99 


By me, when I behold Him not, 


Then wander o'er city and sea and land, 


Or love Him not when I behold. 


Touching all with thine opiate wand — 


Be all I ever knew forgot — 


Come, long-sought ! 


My pulse stand stiU, my heart grow cold ; 




Transformed to ice, 'twixt earth and sky, 


When I arose and saw the dawn, 


On yonder cliff my form be seen, 


I sighed for thee ; 


That all may ask, but none reply. 


When light rode high, and the dew was gone, 


What my offence hath been. 


And noon lay heavy on flower and tree. 




And the weary Day turned to her rest, 


James Montgosieet. 






Lingering like an unloved guest. 




I sighed for thee ! 


®o tl)e €t)cning Stoir. 


Thy brother Death came, and cried. 




" Wouldst thou me ? " 


Star that bringest home the bee. 


Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed. 


And sett'st the weary laborer free ! 


Murmured like a noontide bee, 


If any star shed peace, 'tis thou. 


"Shall I nestle near thy side? 


That send'st it from above. 


Wouldst thou me? " — And I replied. 


Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow 


" '^0, not thee ! " 


Are sweet as hers we love. 






Death will come when thou art dead. 


Come to the luxuriant skies, 


Soon, too soon — 


Whilst the landscape's odors rise. 


Sleep will come when thou art fled : 


Whilst, far off, lowing herds are heard. 


Of neither would I ask the boon 


And songs when toil is done. 


I ask of thee, beloved Night — 


From cottages whose smoke unstirred 


Swift be thine approaching flight. 


Curls yellow in the sun. 


Come soon, soon ! 


Star of love's soft interviews, 


Perct Btsshe Shbixet. 


Parted lovers on thee muse ; 




Their remembrancer in Heaven 




Of thrilling vows thou art. 


ittoonrise. 


Too delicious to be riven. 




By absence, from the heart. 


What stands upon the highland ? 


Thomas Casipbell. 


What walks across the rise. 




As though a starry island 




Were sinking down the skies f 


STo ICiigljt. 


What makes the trees so golden ? 




What decks the mountain side. 


, Swiftly walk over the western wave. 


Like a veil of silver f olden 


Spirit of night ! 


Round the white brow of a bride ? 


Out of the misty eastern cave. 




Where, all the long and lone daylight. 


The magic moon is breaking. 


Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear 


Like a conqueror, from the east, 


Which make thee terrible and dear — 


The waiting world awaking 


Swift be thy flight ! 


To a golden fairy feast. 


Wrap thy form in a mantle gray. 


She works, with touch ethereal, 


Star-inwrought ; 


By changes strange to see, 


Blind with thine haii- the eyes of Day, 


The cypress, so funereal. 


Kiss her until she be wearied out ; 


To a lightsome fairy tree ; ^^HL 



100 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Black rocks to marble turning, 

Like palaces of kings ; 
On ruin windows burning, 

A festal glory flings ; 

The desert halls uplighting, 

While falling shadows glance, 
Like courtly crowds uniting 

For the banquet or the dance ; 

With ivory wand she numbers 

The stars along the sky ; 
And breaks the billows' slumbers 

With a love-glance of her eye ; 

Along the cornfields dances, 

Brings bloom upon the sheaf ; 
From tree to tree she glances, 

And touches leaf by leaf ; 

Wakes birds that sleep in shadows ; 

Through their half -closed eyelids gleams ; 
With her white torch through the meadows 

Lights the shy deer to the streams. 

The magic moon is breaking, 
Like a conqueror, from the east. 

And the joyous world partaking 
Of her golden fairy feast. 

Ernest Jones. 



Sonnet. 

The crimson Moon uprising from the sea. 
With large delight foretells the harvest near. 
Ye shepherds, now prepare your melody. 
To greet the soft appearance of her sphere ! 

And Uke a page, enamored of her train. 
The star of evening glimmers in the west : ' 
Then raise, ye shepherds, your observant strain. 
That so of the Great Shepherd here are blest ! 

Our fields are full with the time-ripened grain. 
Our vineyards with the purple clukers swell ; 
Her golden splendor glimmers on the main. 
And vales and mountains her bright glory tell. 
Then sing, ye shepherds ! for the time is come 
When we must bring the enriched harvest home. 

LoKD Thurlow. 



QTo X\\z f artjcst ittoon. 

Cum ruit imbriferum ver : 
Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum 
Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent. 

Cuncta tibi Cererem pnbes agrestis adoret. 

Virgil. 
Moon of Harvest, herald mild 
Of Plenty, rustic labor's child, 
Hail ! oh hail ! I greet thy beam. 
As soft it trembles o'er the stream. 
And gilds the straw-thatched hamlet wide. 
Where Innocence and Peace reside I 
'Tis thou that gladd'st with joy the rustic 

throng, 
Promptest the tripping dance, the exhilarating 
song. 

Moon of Harvest, I do love 

O'er the uplands now to rove. 

While thy modest ray serene 

Gilds the wide surrounding scene ; 

And to watch thee riding high 

In the blue vault of the sky. 
Where no thin vapor intercepts thy ray. 
But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy 
way. I 

Pleasing 'tis, modest Moon ! 
Now the night is at her noon, 
'Neath thy sway to musing lie, 
While around the zephyrs sigh, 
Fanning soft the sun-tanned wheat. 
Ripened by the summer's heat ; 
Picturing all the rustic's joy 
When boundless plenty greets his eye. 

And thinking soon, 

modest Moon ! 
How many a female eye wUl roam 

Along the road. 

To see the load. 
The last dear load of harvest-home. 

Storms and tempests, fioods and rains. 
Stern despoilers of the plains. 
Hence, away, the season fiee. 
Foes to light-heart jollity ! 
May no winds careering high 
Drive the clouds along the sky. 



TO NIGHT. 



101 



But may all Nature smile with aspect boon, 
When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, 
harvest Moon ! 

'Neath yon lowly roof he lies. 
The husbandman, with sleep-sealed eyes : 
He dreams of crowded barns, and round 
The yard he hears the flail resound ; 
Oh ! may no hurricane destroy 
His visionary views of joy ! 
God of the winds ! oh, hear his humble prayer, 
And while the Moon of Harvest shines, thy blus- 
tering whuiwind spare. 

Sons of luxury, to you 

Leave I Sleep's dull power to woo ; 

Press ye still the downy bed. 

While feverish dreams surround your head ; 

I will seek the woodland glade, 

Penetrate the thickest shade. 

Wrapped in Contemplation's dreams, 

Musing high on holy themes, 

While on the gale 

ShaU softly saU 
The nightingale's enchanting tune. 

And oft my eyes 

Shall grateful rise 
To thee, the modest Harvest Moon ! 

Hbnbt Kibke White. 



Night 001X0. 

The moon is up in splendor. 
And golden stars attend her ; 

The heavens are calm and bright ; 
Trees cast a deepening shadow, 
And slowly off the meadow 

A mist is rising silver-white. 

Night's curtains now are closing 
Round half a world reposing 

In calm and holy trust. 
All seems one vast still chamber. 
Where weary hearts remember 
No more the sorrows of the dust. 

Matthias Claudius. (German.) 
Translation of C. T. Brooks. 



ac Niglit. 

Mysterious Night ! when our first parent knew 
Thee from report divine, and heard thy name. 
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame. 
This glorious canopy of light and blue ? 
Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew. 
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 
Hesperus with the host of heaven came, 
And lo ! creation widened in man's view. 
Who could have thought such darkness lay con- 
cealed 
Within thy beams, Sun ! or who could find. 
While fly, and leaf, and insect lay revealed. 
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind ! 
Why do we, then, shim Death with anxious strife ? — 
If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life ? 

Joseph Blanco White. 



gong.— QTfje ©tol. 

When cats run home and light is come, 

And dew is cold upon the ground, 

And the far-off stream is dumb. 

And the whirring sail goes round. 

And the whirring sail goes round ; 

Alone and warming his five wits, 

The white owl in the belfry sits. 

When merry milkmaids click the latch, 
And rarely smells the new-mown hay, 
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch 
Twice or thrice his roundelay. 
Twice or thrice his roundelay ; 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 



SECOND SONG — TO THE SAME. 

Thy tuwhits are lulled, I wot. 

Thy tuwhoos of yester night. 
Which upon the dark afloat. 
So took echo with delight, 
So took echo with delight. 

That her voice, imtuneful grown, 
Wears all day a fainter tone. 



103 POEMS OF NATURE. 


I would mock thy chaunt anew ; 


Thus thy praise shall be expressed. 


But I can not mimic it ; 


Inoffensive, welcome guest ! 


Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, 


While the rat is on the scout, 


Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 


And the mouse with curious snout, 


Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 


With what vermin else infest 


With a lengthened loud halloo, 


Every dish, and spoil the best ; 


Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o. 


Frisking thus before the fire. 


Alfred Tennyson. 


Thou hast all thy heart's desire. 




Though in voice and shape they be 




Formed as if akin to thee. 


aije ODtDl. 


Thou surpassest, happier far. 




Happiest grasshoppers that are ; 


While the moon, with sudden gleam, 


Theirs is but a summer's song — 


Through the clouds that cover her. 


Thine endures the winter long. 


Darts her light upon the stream. 


Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear, 


And the poplars gently stir ; 


Melody throughout the year. 


Pleased I hear thy boding cry, 




Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky ! 


Neither night nor dawn of day 


Sure thy notes are harmony. 


Puts a period to thy play. 




Sing, then, and extend thy span 


While the maiden, pale with care. 


Far beyond the date of man. 


Wanders to the lonely shade. 


Wretched man, whose years are spent 


Sighs her sorrows to the air. 


In repining discontent. 


While the flowerets round her fade, — 


Lives not, aged though he be. 


Shrinks to hear thy boding cry ; 


Half a span, compared with thee. 


Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky, 


Vincent Bourne. (Latin.) 


To her it is not harmony. 


Translation of William Cowper. 


While the wretch with mournful dole. 




Wrings his hands in agony. 




Praying for his brother's soul. 


®o fl CIricket. 


Whom he pierced suddenly, — 




Shruiks to hear tliy boding cry ; 


Voice of Summer, keen and shrill, 


Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky, 


Chirping round my winter fire. 


To him it is not harmony. 


Of thy song I never tire. 


Anonymous. 


Weary others as they will ; 




For thy song with Summer's filled — 




Filled with sunshine, filled with June ; 




Firelight echo of that noon 


Q[l)c drickct. 


Heard in fields when all is stilled 


Little inmate, full of mirth. 


In the golden light of May, 


Chirping on my kitchen hearth, 
Whei'esoe'er be thine abode , 


Bringing scents of new-mown hay, 
Bees, and birds, and flowers away : 


Always harbinger of good. 


Prithee, haunt my fireside still, 
Voice of Summer, keen and shrill ! 


Pay me for thy warm retreat 




With a song more soft and sweet ; 


WiLLtAM C. Bennett. 


In return thou shalt receive 




Such a strain as I can give. 





FANCY. 



103 



HAPPY sleep I that bear'st upon thy breast 
The blood-red poppy of enchanting rest, 
Draw near me through the stillness of this place 
And let thy low breath move across my face, 
As faint winds move above a poplar's crest. 

The broad seas darken slowly in the west ; 
The wheeling sea-birds call from nest to nest ; 
Draw near and touch me, leaning out of space, 
happy Sleep ! 

There is no sorrow hidden or confessed 
There is no passion uttered or suppressed. 

Thou canst not for a little while efface ; 

Enfold me in thy mystical embrace. 

Thou sovereign gift of God most sweet, most blest, 

happy Sleep ! 

Ada Louise Martin. 



% UDonbting ^zan. 

Where are the swallows fled ? 

Frozen and dead 
Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore. 
doubting heart ! 
Far over purple seas. 
They wait, in sunny ease. 
The balmy southern breeze 
To bring them to their northern homes once more. 

Why must the flowers die ? 
Prisoned they lie 
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. 
doubting heart ! 
They only sleep below 
The soft white ermine snow 
While winter winds shall blow. 
To breathe and smile upon you soon again. 

The sun has hid its rays 

These many days ; 
Will dreary hours never leave the earth ? 
doubting heart ! 
The stormy clouds on high 
Veil the same sunny sky 
That soon, for Spring is nigh. 
Shall wake the Summer into golden mirth. 



Fair hope is dead, and light 

Is quenched in night ; 
What sound can break the silence of despair ? 
doubting heart ! 
The sky is overcast. 
Yet stars shall rise at last, 
Brighter for darkness past. 
And angels' silver voices stir the air. 

Adblaidb Airas Peocteb. 



Ever let the Fancy roam ; 

Pleasure never is at home : 

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; 

Then let winged Fancy wander 

Through the thought still spread beyond her ; 

Open wide the mind's cage-door — 

She'll dart forth, and eloudward soar. 

sweet Fancy ! let her loose ! 

Summer's joys are spoilt by use. 

And the enjoying of the Spring 

Fades as does its blossoming. 

Autumn's red-lipped fruitage too. 

Blushing through the mist and dew. 

Cloys with tasting. What do then f 

Sit thee by the ingle, when 

The sear fagot blazes bright. 

Spirit of a winter's night ; 

When the soundless earth is muffled. 

And the caked snow is shuffled 

From the ploughboy's heavy shoon ; 

When the Night doth meet the Noon 

In a dark conspiracy 

To banish Even from her sky. 

Sit thee there, and send abroad. 

With a mind self-overawed. 

Fancy, high-commissioned ; — send her ! 

She has vassals to attend her ; 

She will bring, in spite of frost, 

Beauties that the earth hath lost ; — 

She will bring thee, all together. 

All delights of summer weather ; 

All the buds and bells of May, 

From dewy sward or thorny spray ; 

All the heaped Autumn's wealth ; — 

With a still, mysterious stealth ; 



104 POEMS OF NATURE. 


She will mix these pleasures up 


"White as Hebe's when her zone 


Like three fit wines in a cup, 


Slipt its golden clasp, and down 


And thou shalt quaff it, — tliou shalt hear 


Fell her kirtle to her feet. 


Distant harvest-carols clear — 


While she held the goblet sweet, 


Eustle of the reaped com ; 


And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 


Sweet birds antheming the morn ; 


Of the Fancy's silken leash ; 


And, in the same moment — hark ! 


Quickly break her prison-string. 


'Tis the early April lark, — 


And such joys as these she'll bring. — 


Or the rooks, with busy caw, 


Let the winged Fancy roam ; 


Foraging for sticks and straw. ' 


Pleasure never is at home. 


Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 


John Keats. 


The daisy and the marigold ; 




White-plumed lilies, and the first 




Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst ; 


a;i)e toinbg Niglit. 


Shaded hyacinth, alway 
Sapphire queen of the mid-May ; 
And every leaf, and every flower 


Alow and aloof, 
Over the roof, 


Pearled with the self-same shower. 


How the midnight tempests howl ! 


Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 


With a dreary voice, like the dismal tune 


Meagre from its celled sleep : 


Of wolves that bay at the desert moon ; 


And the snake, all winter-thin, 


Or whistle and shriek 


Cast on sunny bank its skin ; 


Through limbs that creak. 


Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 


"Tu-who! Tu-whit!" 


Hatching in the hawthorn-tree. 


They cry, and flit, 


"When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 


" Tu-whit ! Tu-who ! " like the solemn owl ! 


Quiet on her mossy nest ; 


Alow and aloof, 


Then the hurry and alarm 


Over the roof, 


"When the bee-hive casts its swarm ; 


Sweep the moaning winds amain, 


Acorns ripe down-pattering 


And wildly dash 


"WhUe the autumn breezes sing. 


The elm and ash, 




Clattering on the window sash 


Oh sweet Fancy ! let her loose ! 


With a clatter and patter 


Every thing is spoilt by use ; 


Like hail and rain. 


"Where's the cheek that doth not fade, 


That well-nigh shatter 


Too much gazed at ? Where's the maid 


The dusky pane ! 


Whose lip mature is ever new 1 




"Where's the eye, however blue. 


Alow and aloof, 


Doth not weary ? Where's the face 


Over the roof. 


One would meet in every place ? 


How the tempests swell and roar ! 


Where's the voice, however soft. 


Though no foot is astir, 


One would hear so veiy oft ! 


Though the cat and the cur 


At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 


Lie dozing along the kitchen floor, 


Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 


There are feet of air 


Let, then, ^vinged Fancy find 


On every stair — 


Thee a mistress to thy mind : ' 


Through every hall ! 


Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter 


Through each gusty door 


Ere the god of Torment taught her 


There's a jostle and bustle, 


How to frown and how to chide ; 


With a silken nistle. 


"With a waist and with a side 


Like the meeting of guests at a festival ! 



THE MIDNIGHT WIND. 



105 



Alow and aloof, 

Over the roof, 
How the stormy tempests swell ! 

And make the vane 

On the spire complain ; 
They heave at the steeple with might and mai:i, 

And burst and sweep 

Into the belfry, on the bell ! 
They smite it so hard, and they smite it so well, 

That the sexton tosses his arms in sleep. 
And dreams he is ringing a funeral knell ! 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 



JBioro, biom, tliou tOintcr iMinir. 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind — 

Thou art not so unkind 
As man's ingratitude ; 

Thy tooth is not so keen, 

Because thou art not seen, 

Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly ; 

Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 

This life is most jolly ! 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky — 
Thou dost not bite so nigh 

As benefits forgot ; 
Though thou the waters warp. 
Thy sting is not so sharp 

As friend remembered not. 
Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly ; 
Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 
This life is most Jolly ! 

William Shakespeaee. 



MouRKFtJLLY ! oh, mournf ully 

This midnight wind doth sigh. 
Like some sweet, plaintive melody 

Of ages long gone by ! 
It speaks a tale of other years, — 

Of hopes that bloomed to die, — 
Of sunny smiles that set in tears. 

And loves that mouldering lie ! 



Mournfully ! oh, mournfully 

This midnight wind doth moan ! 
It stirs some chord of memory 

In each dull, heavy tone ! 
The voices of the much-loved dead 

Seem floating thereupon, — 
AU, all my fond heart cherished 

Ere death had made it lone. 

Mournfully ! oh, mournfully 

This midnight wind doth swell 
With its qiiaint, pensive minstrelsy, — 

Hope's passionate farewell 
To the dreamy joys of early years. 

Ere yet grief's canker fell 
On the heart's bloom, — ay ! well may tears 

Start at that parting knell ! 

William Mother^vell. 



©lie J^oUg-QTree. 

READEE ! hast thou ever stood to see 

The holly-tree ! 
The eye that contemplates it well, perceives 

Its glossy leaves 
Ordered by an intelligence so wise 
As might confound the atheist's sophistries. 

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen 

Wrinkled and keen ; 
No grazing cattle, through their prickly roxmd. 

Can reach to wound ; 
But as they grow where nothing is to fear, 
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. 

1 love to ^'iew these things with curious eyes. 

And moralize ; 
And in this wisdom of the holly-tree 

Can emblems see 
Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme. 
One which may profit in the after-time. 

Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear 

Harsh and austere — 
To those who on my leisure would intrude, 

Reserved and rude ; 
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, 
Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree. 



106 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, 

Some harshness show, 
All vain asperities I, day by day, 

Would wear away. 
Till the smooth temper of my age should be 
Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree. 

And as, when all the summer trees are seen 

So bright and green. 
The holly-leaves their fadeless hues display 

Less bright than they ; 
But when the bare and wintry woods we see. 
What then so cheerful as the holly-tree ? 

So, serious should my youth appear among 

The thoughtless throng ; 
So would I seem, amid the young and gay, 

More grave than they : 
That in my age as cheerful I might be 
As the green winter of the holly-tree. 

Robert Southet. 



tooobs in iXlinter. 

When winter winds are piercing chill. 
And through the hawthorn blows the gale. 

With solemn feet I tread the hill 
That overbrows the lonely vale. 

O'er the bare upland, and away 

Through the long reach of desert woods. 
The embracing sunbeams chastely play. 

And gladden these deep solitudes. 

Where, twisted round the barren oak. 
The summer vine in beauty clung. 

And summer winds the stillness broke, — 
The crystal icicle is hung. 

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs 
Pour out the river's gradual tide. 

Shrilly the skater's iron rings, 
And voices fill the woodland side. 

Alas ! how changed from the fair scene 
When birds sang out their mellow lay. 

And winds were soft, and woods were green. 
And the song ceased not with the day. 



But stUl wild music is abroad, 

Pale, desert woods ! within your crowd ; 
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord. 

Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. 

Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear 
Has grown familiar with your song ; 

I hear it in the opening year, — 
1 listen, and it cheers me long. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



55'ortl) toinb. 



Loud wind ! strong wind ! sweeping o'er the moun- 
tains ; 

Fresh wind ! free wind ! blowing from the sea. 

Pour forth thy vials like torrents from air foun- 
tains. 

Draughts of life to me. 

Clear wind ! cold wind ! like a northern giant, 
Stars brightly threading thy cloud-driven hair, 
ThrUling the blank night with thy voice defiant — 
Lo ! I meet thee there ! 

Wild wind ! bold wind ! like a strong-armed angel 
Clasp me and kiss me with thy kisses divine ! 
Breathe in this dulled ear thysecret,sweet evangel, — 
Mine, and only mine ! 

Pierce wind ! mad wind ! howling o'er the nations ! 
Knew'st thou how leapeth my heart as thou goest by. 
Ah ! thou wouldst pause awhile in sudden patience. 
Like a human sigh ! 

Sharp wind ! keen wind ! cutting as word arrows. 
Empty thy quiver-full ! Pass by ! what is't to thee. 
That in some mortal eyes life's whole bright circle 

narrows 
To one misery? 

Loud wind ! strong wind ! stay thou in the moun- 
tains ; 

Fresh wind ! free wind ! trouble not the sea ! 

Or lay thy deathly hand upon my heart's warm 
fountains 

That I hear not thee ! 

Dinah Maria Mulock Cbaik. 



THE SNOW-STORM. 



107 



®l)e SnotD-Storm. 

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, 
Arrives the snow ; and, driving o'er the fields 
Seems nowhere to alight ; the whited air 
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, 
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. 
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's 

feet 
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit 
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed 
In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 

Come see the north wind's masonry. 
Out of an unseen quarry, evermore 
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer 
Curves his white bastions with projected roof ; 
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door 
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work 
So fanciful, so savage ; naught cares he 
For number or proportion. Mockingly, 
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths, 
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn ; 
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, 
Maugre the farmer's sighs ; and at the gate 
A tapering turret overtops the work. 
And when his hours are numbered, and the 

world 
Is all his own, retuing as he were not, 
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art 
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, 
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, 
The frolic architecture of the snow. 

Kalph Waldo Ejiekson. 



Sonnet. 

TO A BIRD THAT HAUNTED THE WATERS OF 
LAAKEN IN THE WINTER. 

MELANCHOLY bird, a winter's day 
Thou standest by the margin of the pool, 
And, taught by God, dost thy whole being 
school 

To pa.tience, which all evil can allay. 

God has appointed thee the fish thy prey, 
And given thyself a lesson to the fool 
Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule. 

And his unthinking course by thee to weigh. 



There need not schools nor the professor's chair, 
Though these be good, true wisdom to impart ; 

He who has not enough for these to spare. 
Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart. 

And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair — 
Nature is always wise in every part. 

LOBD Thublow. 



QCo \\)z Hcbbreast. 

SwEET bird ! that sing'st away the early hours 
Of winters past or coming, void of care ; 
Well pleased with delights which present are, 
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flow- 
ers — 
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers 
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare. 
And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare, 
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. 
What soul can be so sick which by thy songs 
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven 
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs. 
And lift a reverend eye and thought to Heaven ! 
Sweet, artless songster ! thou my mind dost raise 
To airs of spheres — yes, and to angels' lays. 

William Drummond. 



^ft-crnoon in ^cbruars- 

The day is ending, 
The night is descending ; 
The marsh is frozen, 
The river dead. 

Through clouds like ashes 
The red sun flashes 
On village windows 
That glimmer red. 

The snow recommences ; 
The buried fences 
Mark no longer 

The road o'er the plain ; 

While through the meadows. 
Like fearful shadows, 
Slowly passes 
A funeral train. 



108 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



The bell is pealing, 
And every feeling 
Within me responds 
To the dismal knell ; 

Shadows are trailing, 
My heart is bewailing 
And tolling within 
Like a funeral bell. 

Henrt Wabswohth Longfellow. 



% Song for X\)t Seasons. 

When the merry lark doth gild 

With his song the summer hours. 
And their nests the swallows build 

In the roofs and tops of towers, 
And the golden broom-flower burns 

All about the waste, 
And the maiden May returns 

With a pretty haste, — 

Then, how merry are the times ! 

TJie Summer times ! the Spring times ! 

Now, from off the ashy stone 

The chilly midnight cricket crieth. 
And all merry birds are flown, 

And our dream of pleasure dieth ; 
Now the once blue, laughing sky 

Saddens into gray, 
And the frozen rivers sigh. 

Pining all away ! 
Now, how solemn are the times ! 
The Winter times ! the Night times ! 

Yet, be merry : all around 

Is through one vast change revolving ; 
Even Night, who lately frowned, 

Is in paler dawn dissolving ; 
Earth will burst her fetters strange. 

And in Spring grow free ; 
All things in the world will change, 
Save — my love for thee ! 

Sing then, hopeful are all time% ! 
Winter, Summer, Spring times ! 

Babrt Cornwall. 



HDirge for X\\t fear. 

Orphan Hours, the Year is dead. 
Come and sigh, come and weep ! 

Merry Hours, smile instead. 
For the Year is but asleep : 

See, it smiles as it is sleeping, 

Mocking your untimely weeping. 

As an earthquake rocks a corse 

In its cofiin in the clay. 
So white Winter, that rough nurse. 

Rocks the dead-cold Year to-day ; 
Solemn Hours ! wail aloud 
For your mother in her shroud. 

As the wild air stirs and sways 
The tree-swung cradle of a child. 

So the breath of these rude days 
Rocks the Year. Be calm and mild, 

Trembling Hours ; she will arise 

With new love within her eyes. 

January gray is here. 

Like a sexton by her grave ; 
February bears the bier ; 

March with grief doth howl and rave, 
And April weeps — but, ye Hours! 
PoUow with May's fairest flowers. 

Perot Bysshe Shellet. 



Sonnet. 

Die down, dismal day ! and let me live. 

And come, blue deeps ! magnificently strewn 
With colored clouds — large, light, and fugitive — 

By upper winds through pompous motions blown. 
Now it is death in life — a vapor dense 

Creeps round my window till I cannot see 
The far snow-shining mountains, and the glens 

Shagging the mountain-tops. God! make 
free 
This barren, shackled earth, so deadly cold — 

Breathe gently forth Thy spring, till winter flies 
In rude amazement, fearful and yet bold. 

While she performs her customed charities. 
I weigh the loaded hours till life is bare — 
God ! for one clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air ! 

David Gray. 



INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS. 



109 



ilgmn to i\\t Spirit of 25'oture. 

Life of Life ! Thy lips enkindle 
With their love the breath between them ; 

And thy smiles before they dwindle 
Make the cold air fire ; then screen them 

In those locks, where whoso gazes 

Faints, entangled in their mazes. 

Child of Light ! Thy limbs are burning 
Through the veil which seems to hide them, 

As the radiant lines of morning 
Through thin clouds, ere they divide them ; 

And this atmosphere divinest 

Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. 

Fair are others : none beholds Thee ; 

But thy voice sounds low and tender 
Like the fairest, for it folds thee 

From the sight, that liquid splendor ; 
And all feel, yet see thee never, — 
As I feel now, lost for ever ! 

Lamp of Earth ! where'er thou movest, 
Its dim shapes are clad with brightness, 

And the souls of whom thou lovest 
Walk upon the winds with lightness 

Till they fail, as I am failing, 

Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing ! 

Perct Btsshe Shelley. 



Influence of JC'aturol ©bfects. 

Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! 
Thou Soul, that art the eternity of thought ! 
And giv'st to forms and images a breath 
And everlasting motion ! not in vain. 
By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn 
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 
The passions that build up our human soul — 
Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man, 
But with high objects, with enduring things. 
With Life and Nature ; purifying thus 
The elements of feeling and of thought. 
And sanctifying by such discipline 
Both pain and fear, — until we recognize 
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 
Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me 



With stinted kindness. In November days. 

When vapors rolling down the valleys made 

A lonely scene more lonesome ; among woods 

At noon ; and 'mid the calm of summer nights, 

When, by the margin of the trembling lake. 

Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went 

In solitude, such intercourse was mine. 

Mine was it in the fields both day and night. 

And by the waters, all the Summer long ; 

And in the frosty season, when the sun 

Was set, and, visible for many a mile. 

The cottage windows through the twilight blazed, 

I heeded not the summons. Happy time 

It was indeed for aU of us ; for me 

It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud 

The village-clock tolled six ; I wheeled about. 

Proud and exulting like an untired horse 

That cares not for his home. All shod with steel. 

We hissed along the polished ice, in games 

Confederate, imitative of the chase 

And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn, 

The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare. 

So through the darkness and the cold we flew, 

And not a voice was idle. With the din 

Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; 

The leafless trees and every icy crag 

Tinkled like iron ; while far-distant hUls 

Into the tumult sent an alien sound 

Of melancholy, not unnoticed ; while the stars, 

Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west 

The orange sky of evening died away. 

Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
Into a silent bay, or sportively 
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, 
To cut across the refiex of a star — 
Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed 
Upon the glassy plain. And oftentimes. 
When we had given our bodies to the wind, 
And all the shadowy banks on either side 
Came sweeping thro' the darkness, spinning still 
The rapid line of motion, then at once 
Have I, reclining back upon my heels. 
Stopped short ; yet still the solitary cliffs 
Wheeled by me, — even as if the Earth had rolled 
With visible motion her diurnal round ! 
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 
Feebler and feebler ; and I stood and watched 
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 

William Wokdswokth. 



no 



FOEIIS OF NATURE. 



BEFOKE SUNRISE, IN THE TALE OF CHAMOUNI. 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 
In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald, awful head, sovereign Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form, 
Eisest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black — 
An ebon mass. Methinks thou piereest it, 
As with a wedge ! But when I look again, 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

Didst vanish from my thought. Entranced in 
prayer 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguUing melody, 
So sweet we know not we are listening to it. 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my 

thought — 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy — 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, tranfused. 
Into the mighty vision passing — there. 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven ! 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears. 
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the 
vale! 
Oh, struggling with the darkness all the night. 
And visited all night by troops of stars. 
Or when they climb the sky or when. they sink — 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn. 
Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald — wake, oh wake, and utter praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light f 
Who made thee parent of perpetual strfeams f 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 



For ever shattered and the same for ever? 

Who gave you your invulnerable life. 

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your 

Joy, 

Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 

And who commanded (and the silence came), 

Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 

Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice. 
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven 
Beneath the keen full moon f Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows ? Wlio, with living flow- 
ers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? 
God ! — let the torrents, like a shout of nations. 
Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome 

voice ! 
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 
Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing 
peaks. 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure 

serene. 
Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast — 
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears. 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud. 
To rise before me — Rise, oh ever rise ! 
Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth ! 
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills. 
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, 
Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun. 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 

Samubl Taitlor Colekidgb. 



PAET II. 
POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



Elle avait dix ans, et moi trente ; 

J'6tais pour elle I'univers. 
Oh ! comrae I'herbe est odorante 

Sous les arbree profonds et verts 1 

EUe faisait mon sort prosp^re, 
Mon travail leger, mon ciel bleu. 

Lorsqu'elle me disait : Mon pere, 
Tout mon cceur s'ecriait : Mon Dieu 1 

Les anges se miraient en elle. 

Que son bonjour etalt charmant I 
Le ciel mettait dans sa prnnelle 

Ce regard qui jamais ne ment. 

Oh ! je I'avais, si jeune encore, 
Vue apparaltre en mon destin ! 

C'etait Tenfant de mon aurore, 
Et mon etoile du matin ! 



Victor Hugo. 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



Jfntrobnction. 

PiPiNa down the valleys wild, 
Piping songs of pleasant glee, 

On a cloud I saw a child, 
And he, laughing, said to me : 

" Pipe a song about a lamb." 
So I piped with merry cheer. 

" Piper, pipe that song again." 
So I piped ; he wept to hear. 

" Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, 
Sing thy songs of happy cheer." 

So I sung the same again, 
'^^HiUe he wept with joy to hear. 

" Piper, sit thee down and write, 
In a book, that all may read." 

So he vanished from my sight, 
And I plucked a hollow reed ; 

And I made a rural pen ; 

And I stained the water clear, 
And I wrote my happy songs 

Every child may joy to hear. 

William Blake. 



JBaba Ma's!. 

Cheeks as soft as July peaches ; 
Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches 
Poppies paleness ; round large eyes 
Ever great with new surprise ; 



Minutes filled with shadeless gladness ; 
Minutes just as brimmed with sadness ; 
Happy smiles and wailing cries ; 
Crows and laughs and tearful eyes ; 
Lights and shadows, swifter born 
Than on wind-swept Autumn corn ; 
Ever some new tiny notion. 
Making every limb all motion ; 
Catchings up of legs and arms ; 
Throwings back and small alarms ; 
Clutching fingers ; straightening jerks ; 
Twining feet whose each toe works ; 
Kickings up and straining risings ; 
Mother's ever new surprisings ; 
Hands all wants and looks all wonder 
At aU things the heavens under ; 
Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings 
That have more of love than lovings ; 
Mischiefs done with such a winning 
Archness that we prize such sinning ; 
Breakings dire of plates and glasses ; 
Graspings small at all that passes ; 
Pullings off of all that's able 
To be caught from tray or table ; 
Silences — small meditations 
Deep as thoughts of cares for nations 
Breaking into wisest speeches 
In a tongue that nothing teaches ; 
All the thoughts of whose possessing 
Must be wooed to light by guessing ; 
Slumbers — such sweet angel-seemings 
That we'd ever have such dreamings ; 
Till from sleep we see thee breaking, 
And we'd always have thee waking ; 



114 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



Wealth for which we know no measure ; 
Pleasure high above all pleasure ; 
Gladness brimming over gladness ; 
Joy in care ; delight in sadness ; 
Loveliness beyond completeness ; 
Sweetness distancing all sweetness ; 
Beauty all that beauty may be ; — 
That's May Bennett ; that's my baby. 

William Cox Bennett. 



Cuilabg. 

Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea. 
Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea ! 
Over the rolling waters go ; 
Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me ; 
WhUe my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest ; 

Father will come to thee soon. 
Rest, rest on mother's breast ; 

Father will come to thee soon. 
Father will come to his babe in the nest ; 
Silver sails all out of the west 
Under the silver moon ; 
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 
Alfred Tennyson. 



Olljoosmg o Natnc. 

I HAVE got a new-born sister ; 
I was nigh the first that kissed her. 
Wlien the nursing- woman brought her 
To papa, his infant daughter. 
How papa's dear eyes did glisten ! 
She will shortly be to christen ; 
And papa has made the oiler, 
I shall have the naming of her. 

Now I wonder what would please her — 
Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa ? 
Ann and Mary, they're too common ; 
Joan's too formal for a woman ; 



Jane's a prettier name beside ; 
But we had a Jane that died. 
They would say, if 'twas Rebecca, 
That she was a little Quaker. 
Edith's pretty, but that looks 
Better in old English books ; 
Ellen's left off long ago ; 
Blanche is out of fashion now. 
None that I have named as yet 
Are so good as Margaret. 
EmUy is neat and fine ; 
What do you think of Caroline ? 
How I'm puzzled and perplexed 
What to choose or think of next ! 
I am in a little fever 
Lest the name that I should give her 
Should disgrace her or defame her ; — 
I will leave papa to name her. 

Mart Lajib. 



9ri)c Cliristcning. 

Arrayed — a half -angelic sight — 

In vests of pure baptismal white. 

The mother to the font doth bring 

The little helpless, nameless thing 

With hushes soft and mild caressing. 

At once to get — a name and blessing. 

Close by the babe the priest doth stand. 

The cleansing water at his hand 

Which must assoU the soul within 

Prom every stain of Adam's sin. 

The infant eyes the mystic scenes. 

Nor knows what all this wonder means ; 

And now he smiles, as if to say, 

" I am a Christian made this day ; " 

Now frighted clings to nurse's hold. 

Shrinking from the water cold. 

Whose virtues, rightly understood. 

Are, as Bethesda's waters, good. 

Strange words, " The world, the flesh, the devil,' 

Poor babe, what can it know of evil ? 

But we must silently adore 

Mysterious truths, and not explore. 

Enough for him, in after-times, 

When he shall read these artless rhymes, 

If, looking back upon this day 

With quiet conscience, he can say. 




es 



CUDDLE DOOX. 



115 



" I have in part redeemed the pledge 

Of my baptismal privilege ; 

And more and more will strive to flee 

All which my sponsors kind did then renounce for 

me." 

Chables Lamb. 



The baimies cuddle doon at. nicht, 

Wi' muckle faucht an' din ; 
0, try an' sleep, ye waukrife rogues, 

Your father's eomin' in. 
They never heed a word I speak ; 

I try to gie a froon. 
But aye I hap them up, an' cry, 

" bairnies, cuddle doon." 

Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid — 

He aye sleeps next the wa' — 
Bangs up an' cries, " I want a piece ; " 

The rascal starts them a'. 
I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks, 

They stop awee the soun' ; 
Then draw the blankets up an' cry, 

" Noo, weanies, cuddle doon." 

But ere five minutes gang, wee Eab 

Cries oot f rae 'neath the claes, 
"Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at ance — 

He's kittlin wi' his taes." 
The mischief's in that Tam for tricks. 

He'd bother half the toon : 
But aye I hap them up an' cry, 

" baimies, cuddle doon." 

At length they hear their father's fit, 

An', as he steeks the door. 
They turn their faces to the wa', 

"WliUe Tam pretends to snore. 
" Hae a' the weans been gude ? " he asks. 

As he pits off his shoon ; 
" The bairnies, John, are in their beds, 

An' lang since cuddled doon." 

An' Just afore we bed oorsel'. 

We look at oor wee lambs ; 
Tam has his au-ms roun' wee Rab's neck. 

An' Eab his airms roun' Tam's. 



I lift wee Jamie up the bed, 

An' as I straik each croon, 
I whisper, till my heart fills up, 

" bau-nies, cuddle doon." 

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, 

Wi' mirth that's dear to me ; 
But sune the big warl's cark an' care 

WiU quaten doon their glee. 
Yet come what will to ilka ane. 

May He who sits aboon 
Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld, 

" bairnies, cuddle doon." 

Alexander Anderson. 



toUlie toinkie. 

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, 
Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown, 
Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, 
" Are the weans in their bed ? — for it's now ten 
o'clock." 

Hey, Wniie Winkie ! are ye comin' ben ? 

The cat's singing' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen. 

The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a 

cheep ; 
But here's a waidirif e laddie, that winna fa' asleep. 

Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue ! — glow'rin' like the 

moon, 
Rattlin' in an aim jug wi' an airn spoon, 
Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawiu' like a cock, 
Skirlin' like a kenna-what — wauknin' sleepin' 

folk! 

Hey, Willie Winkie ! the wean's in a creel ! 
Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, 
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her 

thrums : 
Hey, Willie Winkie ! — See, there he comes ! 

Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean, 
A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane. 
That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he'll close an 

ee; 
But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew 

to me. 

WrLMAM MrLLEE. 



116 



POEIIS OF CHILDHOOD. 



You needn't be trying to comfort me — I tell you 

my dolly is dead ! 
There's no use in saying she is n't, with a crack like 

that in her head. 
It's Just like you said it would n't hurt much to 

have my tooth out, that day ; 
And then, when the man 'most pulled my head off, 

you had n't a word to say. 

And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when 

you say you can mend it with glue : 
As if I did n't know better than that ! Why, just 

suppose it was you ? 
You might make her look all mended — but what 

do I care for looks ? 
Why, glue's for chairs and tables, and toys and the 

backs of books ! 



My dolly ! my own little daughter ! Oh, but it's 

the awfullest crack ! 
It just makes me sick to think of the sound when 

her poor head went whack 
Against that horrible brass thing that holds up the 

little shelf. 
Now, Nursey, what makes you remind me? I 

know that I did it myself ! 

I think you must be crazy — you'll get her an- 
other head ! 

What good would forty heads do her ? I tell you 
my dolly is dead ! 

And to think I had n't quite finished her elegant 
new spring hat ! 

And I took a sweet ribbon of hers last night to tie 
on that horrid cat ! 



When my mamma gave me that ribbon — I was 
playing out in the yard — 

She said to me, most expressly, " Here's a ribbon 
for Hildegarde." ' 

And 1 went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde 
saw me do it ; 

But 1 said to myself, " Oh, never mind, I don't be- 
lieve she knew it ! " 



But I know that she knew it now, and I just be- 
lieve, I do. 

That her poor little heart was broken, and so her 
head broke too. 

Oh, my baby! my little baby! I wish my head 
had been hit ! 

For I've hit it over and over, and it has n't cracked 
a bit. 

But since the darling is dead, she'll want to be 

buried, of course : 
We will take my little wagon. Nurse, and you shall 

be the horse ; 
And I'll walk behind and cry, and we'll put her in 

this, you see — 
This dear little box — and we'll bury her there out 

under the maple-tree. 

And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one 

he made for my bird ; 
And he'll put what I tell him on it — yes, every 

single word ! 
I shall say : " Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll, 

who is dead ; 
She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in 

her head." Maboabet Vanddgkift. 



gL[)e Angel's tol)isjicr. 

A superstition prevails in Ireland that, wlien a child 
smiles in its sleep, it is " talking with angels." 

A BABY was sleeping ; 

Its mother was weeping ; 
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ; 

And the tempest was swelling 

Eound the fisherman's dwelling ; 
And she cried, " Dermot, darling, oh come back to 
me!" 

Her beads while she numbered, 

The baby still slumbered. 
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee : 

" Oh, blest be that warning, 

My child, thy sleep adorning, 
For I know that the angels are whispering with 
thee. 

" And while they are keeping 
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping. 



PHILIP, MY KING. 



Ill 



Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me ! 

And say thou wouldst rather 

They'd watch o'er thy father ! 
For I know that the angels are whispering to 
thee." 

The dawn of the morning 
Saw Dermot returning, 
And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to 
see; 
And closely caressing 
Her child with a blessing. 
Said, "1 knew that the angels were whispering 
with thee." 

SAirUEI, LOVEE. 



|)l)ilijj, tns King. 

" Who bears upon his haby brow the round 
And top of sovereignty." 

Look at me with thy large brown eyes, 

PhUip, my king ! 
For round thee the purple shadow lies 
Of babyhood's royal dignities. 
Lay on my neck thy tiny hand 

"With Love's invisible sceptre laden; 
I am thine Esther, to command 
Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden, 
Philip, my king ! 

Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing, 

Philip, my king ! 
When those beautiful lips 'gin suing. 
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing, 
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there 

Sittest love-glorified ! — Rule kindly. 
Tenderly over thy kingdom fair ; 
For we that love, all ! we love so blindly, 
Philip, my king ! 

I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, 

Philip, my king ! 
The spirit that there lies sleeping now. 
May rise like a giant, and make men bow 
As to one Heaven-chosen amongst his peers. 

My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer. 
Let me behold thee in future years ! 
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, 
Philip, my king — 



A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day, 

Philip, my king ! 
Thou too must tread, as we trod, -a way 
Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray ; 
Rebels within thee, and foes without 
Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glori- 
ous. 
Martyr, yet monarch ! till angels shout. 
As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, 
" Philip, the king ! " 

DtNAH Mabia Muxock Craik. 



a;i)e ari)ilb and \\\t toatcl)er. 

Sleep on, baby on the floor, 

Tked of all thy playing — 
Sleep with smile the sweeter for 

That you dropped away in ; 
On your curls' fair roundness stand 

Golden lights serenely ; 
One cheek, pushed out by the hand, 

Folds the dimple inly — 
Little head and little foot 

Heavy laid for pleasure ; 
Underneath the lids half-shut 

Plants the shining azure ; 
Open-souled in noonday sun. 

So, you lie and slumber ; 
Nothing evil having done, 

Nothing can encumber. 

I, who cannot sleep as well. 

Shall I sigh to view you ? 
Or sigh further to foretell 

All that may undo you ? 
Nay, keep smiling, little child. 

Ere the fate appeareth ! 
I smile, too ; for patience mild 

Pleasure's token weareth. 
Nay, keep sleeping before loss ; 

I shall sleep, though losing ! 
As by cradle, so by cross, 

Sweet is the reposing. 

And God knows, who sees us twain. 
Child at childish leisure, 

I am aU as tired of pain 
As you are of pleasure. 



118 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



Very soon, too, by His grace, 

Gently wrapt around me, 
I shall show as calm a face, 

I shall sleep as soundly — 
Differing in this, that you 

Clasp your playthings sleeping. 
While my hand must drop the few 

Given to my keeping — 

Differing in this, that I, 

Sleeping, must be colder, 
And, in waking presently, 

Brighter to beholder — 
Differing in this beside 

(Sleeper, have you heard me ? 
Do you move, and open wide 

Your great eyes toward me f) 
That while I you draw withal 

From this slumber solely, 
Me, from mme, an angel shall, 

Trumpet-tongued and holy ! 

Elizabeth Barkett Brownins. 



eClje (Sipss's iHaUson. 

" Suck, baby, suck ! mother's love grows by giving ; 
Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wast- 
ing: 
Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living 
Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tast- 
ing. 

" Kiss, baby, kiss ! mother's lips shine by kisses ; 

Choke the warm breath that else would fall in 
blessings : 
Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty bUsses 

Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings. 

" Hang, baby, hang ! mother's love loves such 
forces ; 
Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy 
clinging : 
Black manhood comes, when violent lawless courses 
Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging." 

So sang a withered beldam energetical, 
And banned the ungiving door with lips prophet- 
ical. 

Charles Lamb. 



^\\z ail)ili> Asleep. 

Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy father's face. 
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed ! 

Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently place 
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast. 

Upon that tender eye, my little friend. 
Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me ! 

I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ; 
'Tis sweet to watch for thee — alone for thee ! 

His arms fall down ; sleep sits upon his brow ; 

His eye is closed ; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. 
Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow. 

Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm ? 

Awake, my boy ! — I tremble with affright ! 

Awake, and chase this fatal thought ! — Unclose 
Thine eye but for one moment on the light ! 

Even at the price of thine, give me repose ! 

Sweet error ! — he but slept — I breathe again. 

Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile ! 
Oh, when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain, 

Beside me watch to see thy waking smile ? 

Clotilde de Sueville. (French.) 
Translation of H. W. Longeellow. 



^0 3. i. 

FOUR YEARS OLD: — A NURSERY SONG. 

. . . . Pien cT'amori, 

Pien di canti, e pien di fiori. Fbitgoni. 

Full of little loves of ours, 

Full of songs, and full of flowers. 

Ah, little ranting Johnny, 
For ever blithe and bonny, 
And singing nonny, nonny, 
With hat Just thrown upon ye ; 
Or whistling like the thrushes. 
With a voice in silver gushes ; 
Or twisting random posies 
With daisies, weeds, and roses ; 
And strutting in and out so. 
Or dancing all about so ; 
With cock-up nose so lightsome. 
And sidelong eyes so brightsome, 



TO J. H.—A NURSERY SONG. 



119 



And cheeks as ripe as apples, 

And head as rough as Dapple's, 

And arms as sunny shining 

As if their veins they'd wine in, 

And mouth that smiles so truly 

Heaven seems to have made it newly — 

It breaks into such sweetness 

With merry-lipped completeness ; 

Ah Jack, ah Gianni mio, 

As blithe as Laughing Trio ! 

— Sir Richard, too, you rattler, 

So christened from the Tattler, 

My Bacchus in his glory. 

My little Cor-di-fiori, 

My tricksome Puck, my Robin, 

Who in and out come bobbing. 

As full of feints and frolics as 

That fibbing rogue Autolycus, 

And play the graceless robber on 

Your grave-eyed brother Oberon, — 

Ah Dick, ah Dolce-riso, 

How can you, can you be so ? 

One cannot turn a minute, 

But mischief — there you're in it : 

A-getting at my books, John, 

With mighty bustling looks, John, 

Or poking at the roses, 

In midst of which your nose is ; 

Or climbing on a table, 

No matter how unstable. 

And turning up your quaint eye 

And half -shut teeth, with "Mayn't I?" 

Or else you're ofE at play, John, 

Just as you'd be all day, John, 

With hat or not, as happens ; 

And there you dance, and clap hands. 

Or on the grass go rolling, 

Or plucking flowers, or bowling. 

And getting me expenses 

With losing balls o'er fences ; 

Or, as the constant trade is. 

Are fondled by the ladies 

With " What a young rogue this is ! " 

Reforming him with kisses ; 

Till suddenly you cry out, 

As if you had an eye out. 

So desperately tearful. 

The sound is really fearful ; 



When lo ! directly after. 
It bubbles into laughter. 

Ah rogue ! and do you know, John, 
Why 'tis we love you so, John ? 
And how it is they let ye 
Do what you like and pet ye. 
Though all who look upon ye. 
Exclaim, " Ah, Johnny, Johnny ! " 
It is because you please 'em 
StUl more, John, than you tease 'em ; 
Because, too, when not present. 
The thought of you is pleasant ; 
Because, though such an elf, John, 
They think that if yourself, John, 
Had something to condemn too. 
You'd be as kind to them too ; 
In short, because you're very 
Good-tempered, Jack, and merry ; 
And are as quick at giving 
As easy at receiving ; 
And in the midst of pleasure 
Are certain to find leisure 
To think, my boy, of ours. 
And bring us lumps of flowers. 

But see, the sun shines brightly ; 
Come, put your hat on rightly. 
And we'll among the bushes. 
And hear your friends, the thrushes ; 
And see what flowers the weather 
Has rendered fit to gather ; 
And, when we home must jog, you 
Shall ride my back, you rogue you, — 
Your hat adorned with fine leaves. 
Horse-chestnut, oak, and vine-leaves. 
And so, with green o'erhead, John, 
Shall whistle home to bed, John. 

Leigh Hunt. 



a;o a eri)iii> 

EMBRACING HIS MOTHER. 

Love thy mother, little one ! 

Kiss and clasp her neck again, — 
Hereafter she may have a son 

Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. 
Love thy mother, little one ! 



120 POEMS OF 


CHILDHOOD. 


Gaze upon her living eyes, 


Who wishes all the while to trace 


And mirror back her love for thee, — 


The mother in his future face ; 


Hereafter thou mayst shudder sighs 


But 'tis to her alone uprise 


To meet them when they cannot see. 


His wakening arms ; to her those eyes 


Gaze upon her living eyes ! 


Open with joy and not surprise. 




Walter Savage Landor. 


Press her lips the while they glow 




With love that they have often told, — 




Hereafter thou mayst press in woe. 




And kiss them till thine own are cold. 


She iTaira (!II)ili>. 


Press her lips the while they glow ! 


The summer sun was sinking 


Oh, revere her raven hair ! 


With a mild light, calm and mellow ; 


Although it be not silver-gray — 


It shone on my little boy's bonny cheeks, 


Too early Death, led on by Care, 


And his loose locks of yellow. 


May snatch save one dear lock away. 


The robin was singing sweetly. 


Oh, revere her raven hair ! ^ 


And his song was sad and tender ; 


Pray for her at eve and morn. 


And my little boy's eyes, while he heard the 


That Heaven may long the stroke defer ; 


song 


For thou mayst live the hour forlorn 


Smiled with a sweet soft splendor. 


When thou wilt ask to die with her. 


My little boy lay on my bosom 


Pray for her at eve and morn ! 


While his soul the song was quaffing ; 


Thomas Hood. 


The joy of his soul had tinged his cheek. 




And his heart and his eye were laughing. 


®n tl)c Pcture of an Infant 


I sate alone in my cottage. 




The midnight needle plying ; 


PLATING NEAR A PRECIPICE. 


I feared for my child, for the rush's light 


While on the cliff with calm delight she kneels, 


In the socket now was dying. 


And the blue vales a thousand Joys recall. 




See, to the last, last verge her infant steals ! 


There came a hand to my lonely latch. 


Oh, fly — yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall. — 


Like the wind at midnight moaning ; 


Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare. 


I knelt to pray, but rose again, 


And the fond boy springs back to nestle there. 


For I heard my little boy groaning. 


Leonidas of Alexandria. (Greek.) 


I crossed my brow and I crossed my breast. 


Translation of Samtiel Kogebs. 




But that night my child departed — 




They left a weakling in his stead, 




And I am broken-hearted. 


€l)iliiren. 






Oh ! it cannot be my own sweet boy. 


Children are what the mothers are. 


For his eyes are dim and hollow ; 


No fondest father's fondest care 


My little boy is gone — is gone, 


Can fashion so the infant heart 


And his mother soon will follow ! 


As those creative beams that dart, 




With all their hopes and fears, upon 


The dirge for the dead will be sung for me. 


The cradle of a sleeping son. 


And the mass be chanted meetly. 




And I shall sleep with my little boy. 


His startled eyes with wonder see 


In the moonlight churchyard sweetly. 


A father near him on his knee. 


John Anster. 



TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 



121 



So fl (fll)ilb, buring Sickness. 

Sleep breathes at last from out thee, 

My little patient boy ; 
And balmy rest about thee 

Smooths off the day's annoy. 
I sit me down, and think 

Of all thy winning ways ; 
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, 

That I had less to praise. 

Thy sidelong pUlowed meekness, 

Thy thanks to aU that aid. 
Thy heart, in pain and weakness, 
Of fancied faults afraid ; 

The little trembling hand 
That wipes thy quiet tears : 
These, these are things that may demand 
Dread memories for years. 

Sorrows I've had, severe ones, 

I wiU not think of now ; 
And calmly, midst my dear ones, 
Have wasted with dry brow ; 
But when thy fingers press 
And pat my stooping head, 
I cannot bear the gentleness — 
The tears are in their bed. 

Ah, first-born of thy mother, 

When life and hope were new ; 
Kind playmate of thy brother, 
Thy sister, father too ; 

My light, where'er I go ; 
My bird, when prison-bound. 
My hand-in-hand companion — No, 
My prayers shall hold thee round. 

To say " He has departed " — 

"His voice" — "his face" — is gone. 
To feel impatient-hearted. 

Yet feel we must bear on — 
Ah, I could not endure 

To whisper of such woe. 
Unless I felt this sleep ensure 

That it will not be so. 

Yes, still he's fixed, and sleeping ! 

This silence too the while — 
Its very hush and creeping 

Seem whispering us a smile ; 



Something divine and dim 
Seems going by one's ear. 
Like parting wings of cherubim. 

Who say, " We've finished here." 

Leigh HuifT. 



Qto parties €olcribge. 

SIX TEARS OLD. 

THOU whose fancies from afar are brought ; 

Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel. 

And fittest to unutterable thought 

The breeze-like motion and the self-bom carol, 

Thou fairy voyager ! that dost float 

In such clear water, that thy boat 

May rather seem 

To brood on air than on an earthly stream — 

Suspended in a stream as clear as sky. 

Where earth and heaven do make one imagery; 

blessed vision ! happy child ! 
Thou art so exquisitely wild, 

1 think of thee with many fears 

For what may be thy lot in future years. 

I thought of times when Pain might be thy 

guest. 
Lord of thy house and hospitality ; 
And Grief, uneasy lover, never rest 
But when she sat within the touch of thee. 
too industrious folly ! 
vain and causeless melancholy ! 
Nature will either end thee quite ; 
Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, 
Preserve for thee, by individual right, 
A young lamb's heart among the full-grown 

flocks. 
What hast thou to do with sorrow. 
Or the injuries of to-morrow ? 
Thou art a dew-drop, which the mom brings 

forth, 
111 fitted to sustain unkindly shocks. 
Or to be trailed along the soiling earth ; 
A gem that glitters while it lives, 
And no forewarning gives, 
Bu.t, at the touch of wrongs, without a strife. 
Slips in a moment out of life. 

WlLMAM WORDSWOKTH. 



122 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



So a ari)illr. 

Dear child ! whom sleep can hardly tame, 
As live and beautiful as flame, 
Thou glancest round my graver hours 
As if thy crown of wild-wood flowers 
"Were not by mortal forehead worn, 
But on the summer breeze were borne, 
Or on a mountain streamlet's waves 
Came glistening down from dreamy caves. 

With bright round cheek, amid whose glow 
Delight and wonder come and go ; 
And eyes whose inward meanings play, 
Congenial with the light of day ; 
And brow so calm, a home for Thought 
Before he knows his dwelling wrought ; 
Though wise indeed thou seemest not, 
Thou brightenest well the wise man's lot. 

That shout proclaims the undoubting mind ; 
That laughter leaves no ache behind ; 
And in thy look and dance of glee. 
Unforced, unthought of, simply free, 
How weak the schoolman's formal art 
Thy soul and body's bliss to part ! 
I hail thee Childhood's very Lord, 
In gaze and glance, in voice and word. 

In spite of all foreboding fear, 
A thing thou art of present cheer ; 
And thus to be beloved and known, 
As is a rushy fountain's tone, 
As is the forest's leafy shade. 
Or blackbird's hidden serenade. 
Thou art a flash that lights the whole — 
A gush from Nature's vernal soul. 

And yet, dear child ! within thee lives 
A power that deeper feeling gives. 
That makes thee more than light or air. 
Than all things sweet and all things fair ; 
And sweet and fair as aught may be. 
Diviner life belongs to thee, 
For 'mid thine aimless joys began ' 
The perfect heart and will of Man. 

Thus what thou art foreshows to me 
How greater far thou soon shalt be ; 



And whUe amid thy garlands blow 
The winds that warbling come and go, 
Ever within, not loud but clear, 
Prophetic murmur fills the ear. 
And says that every human birth 
Anew discloses God to earth. 

John Steeling. 



Is there, when the winds are singing 

In the happy summer time. 
When the raptured air is ringing 
With Earth's music heavenward springing, 

Forest chirp, and village chime, 
Is there, of the sounds that float 
Unsighingly, a single note 
Half so sweet, and clear, and wild. 
As the laughter of a child ? 

Listen ! and be now delighted : 

Morn hath touched her golden strings ; 
Earth and Sky their vows have plighted ; 
Life and Light are reunited, 
Amid countless earollings ; 
Yet, delicious as they are. 
There's a sound that's sweeter far — 
One that makes the heart rejoice 
More than all, — the human voice. 

Organ finer, deeper, clearer. 

Though it be a stranger's tone — 

Than the winds or waters dearer, 

More enchanting to the hearer. 
For it answereth to his own. 

But, of all its witching words. 

Sweeter than the songs of birds, 

Those are sweetest, bubbling wild 

Through the laughter of a child. 

Harmonies from time-touched towers. 

Haunted strains from rivulets, 
Hum of bees among the flowers, 
Rustling leaves, and silver showers, — 

These, ere long, the ear forgets ; 
But in mine there is a sound 
Ringing on the whole year round — 
Heart-deep laughter that I heard 
Ere my child could speak a word. 



THE MOTHER'S HEART. 



123 



Ah ! 'twas heard by ear far purer, 
Fondlier formed to catch the stram — 

Ear of one whose love is surer — 

Hers, the mother, the endurer 
Of the deepest share of pain ; 

Hers the deepest bliss to treasure 

Memories of that cry of pleasure ; 

Hers to hoard, a life-time after, 

Echoes of that infant laughter. 

'Tis a mother's large affection 
Hears with a mysterious sense — 

Breathings that evade detection. 

Whisper faint, and fine inflexion, 
Thrill in her with power intense. 

Childhood's honeyed words untaught 

Hiveth she in lovmg thought — 

Tones that never thence depart ; 

For she listens — with her heart. 

LA3IAN BlANCHAKD. 



@[l)e iItotl}cr's ^caxX. 

When first thou earnest, gentle, shy, and fond. 
My eldest born, first hope, and dearest treasure, 

My heart received thee with a joy beyond 
All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure ; 

ZSTor thought that any love again might be 

So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. 

Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years, 
And natural piety that leaned to heaven ; 

Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears. 
Yet patient to rebuke when justly given — 

Obedient — easy to be reconciled — 

And meekly cheerful ; such wert thou, my child ! 

Not willing to be left — still by my side, 

Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dy- 
ing; 

Nor leaving in thy turn, but pleased to glide 
Through the dark room where I was sadly lying ; 

Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek. 

Watch the dim eye, and kiss the fevered cheek. 

boy ! of such as thou are of tenest made 
Earth's fragile idols ; like a tender flower, 

No strength in all thy freshness, prone to fade. 
And bending Aveakly to the thunder-shower ; 



Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind, 
And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind ! 

Then thou, my merry love — bold in thy glee, 
Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing, 

With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free — 
Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing, 

Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth, 

Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth ! 

Thine was the shout, the song, the burst of joy. 
Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip re- 
soundeth ; 
Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy. 
And the glad heart from which all grief re- 
boundeth ; 
And many a mirthful jest and mock reply 
Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye. 

And thine was many an art to win and bless. 
The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming ; 

The coaxing smile — the frequent soft caress — 
The earnest tearful prayer all wrath disarming ! 

Again my heart a new affection found. 

But thought that love with thee had reached its 
bound. 

At length thou camest — thou , the last and least, 
Nick-named "the Emperor" by thy laughing 
brothers — 
Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast. 
And thou didst seek to rule and sway the 
others — 
Mingling with every playful infant wile 
A mimic majesty that made us smile. 

And oh ! most like a regal child wert thou ! 

An eye of resolute and successful scheming ! 
Fair shoulders, curling lips, and dauntless brow. 

Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dreaming; 
And proud the lifting of thy stately head, 
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. 

Different from both ! yet each succeeding claim 
I, that all other love had been forswearing. 

Forthwith admitted, equal and the same ; 
Nor injured either by this love's comparing. 

Nor stole a fraction for the newer call — 

But in the mother's heart found room for all ! 

Caeookb Nohton. 



134 POEIIS OF 


CHILDHOOD. 




Oh mother's love is glorifying. 


illotl)er's Coce. 


On the cheek like sunset lying ; 




In the eyes a moistened light, 


He sang so wildly, did the boy, 


Softer than the jnoon at night ! 


That you could never tell 




If 'twas a madman's voice you heard, 


Thomas Bukbidge. 


Or if the spirit of a bird 




Within his heart did dwell — 




A bird that dallies with his voice 


a;i)e Wet Catnb. 


Among the matted branches ; 




Or on the free blue air his note. 


The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink ; 


To pierce, and fall, and rise, and float. 


I heard a voice ; it said, " Drink, pretty creature. 


With bolder utterance launches. 


drink ! " 


None ever was so sweet as he. 


And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied 


The boy that wildly sang to me ; 


A snow-white mountain-lamb with a maiden at its 


Though toilsome was the way and long, 


side. 


He led me, not to lose the song. 






Nor sheep nor kine were near ; the lamb was all 


But when again we stood below 


alone. 


The unhidden sky, his feet 


And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone ; 


Grew slacker, and his note more slow, 


With one knee on the grass did the little maiden 


But more than doubly sweet. 


kneel. 


He led me then a little way 


While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening 


Athwart the barren moor, 


meal. 


And there he stayed, and bad me stay. 




Beside a cottage door ; 


The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper 


I could have stayed of ray own will, 


took. 


In truth, my eye and heart to fill 


Seemed to feast with head and ears ; and his tail 


With the sweet sight which I saw there. 


with pleasure shook. 


At the dwelling of the cottager. 


" Drink, pretty creature, drink I " she said, in such 


A little in the doorway sitting. 
The mother plied her busy knitting ; 


a tone 
That I almost received her heart into my own. 


And her cheek so softly smiled. 


'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty 


You might be sure, although her gaze 


rare ! 


Was on the meshes of the lace. 


I watched them with delight : they were a lovely 


Yet her thoughts were with her child. 


pair. 


But when the boy had heard her voice, 


Now with her empty can the maiden turned 


As o'er her work she did rejoice. 


away ; 


His became silent altogether ; 


But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did she 


And slyly creeping by the wall. 


stay. 


He seized a single plume, let fall 
By some wild bird of longest feather ; 




Eight towards the lamb she looked ; and from a 


And all a-tremble with his freak. 


shady place 


He touched her lightly on the che^k. 


I unobserved could see the workings of her 
face. 


Oh what a loveliness her eyes 


If nature to her tongue could measured numbers 


Gather in that one moment's space. 


bring. 


While peeping round the post she spies 


Thus, thought 1, to her lamb that little maid might 


Her darling's laughing face ! 


sing :— 



THE PET LAMB. 



135 



" What ails thee, young one ? what ■? Why pull so 

at thy cord ? 
Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and 

board? 
Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ; 
Rest, little young one, rest ; what is't that aileth 

thee? 

" What is it thou wouldst seek ? What is wanting 

to thy heart ? 
Thy limbs, are they not strong? And beautiful 

thou art. 
This grass is tender grass ; these flowers they have 

no peers ; 
And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears ! 

" If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy 

woollen chain — 
This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst 

gain; 
For rain and mountain-storms — the like thou 

need'st not fear ; 
The rain and storm are things that scarcely can 

come here. 

" Rest, little young one, rest ; thou hast forgot the 

day 
When my father found thee first in' places far 

away; 
Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned 

by none. 
And thy mother from thy side for evermore was 

gone. 

" He took thee in his arms, and in j^ity brought thee 

home: 
A blessed day for thee! Then whither wouldst 

thou roam ? 
A faithful nurse thou hast — the dam that did thee 

yean 
Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have 

been. 

" Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought 

thee in this can 
Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran ; 
And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with 

dew, 
I bring thee draughts of milk — warm milk it is, 

and new. 



" Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they 

are now ; 
Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the 

plough. 
My playmate thou shalt be ; and when the wind is 

cold, 
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy 

fold. 

"It will not, will not rest! — Poor creature, can 

it be 
That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in 

thee? 
Things that I know not of belike to thee are 

dear. 
And dreams of things which thou canst neither see 

nor hear. 

" Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and 

fair ! 
I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come 

there ; 
The little brooks, that seem all pastime and all 

play, 
When they are angry roar like lions for their prey. 

"Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the 

sky; 
Night and day thou art safe — our cottage is hard 

by. 
Why bleat so after me ? Why pull so at thy chain ? 
Sleep — and at break of day I will come to thee 

again ! " 

— As homeward through the lane I went with lazy 

feet. 
This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat ; 
And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by 

line. 
That but half of it was hers, and one-half of it was 

mine. 

Again and once again, did I repeat the song ; 

" Nay," said I, " more than half to the damsel must 

belong. 
For she looked with such a look, and she spake 

with such a tone. 
That I almost received her heart into my own." 
William Wordsworth. 



126 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



Like some vision olden 

Of far other time, 
When the age was golden, 

In the young world's prime, 
Is thy soft pipe ringing, 

lonely shepherd boy : 
What song art thou singing. 

In thy youth and joy % 

Or art thou complaining 

Of thy lowly lot, 
And thine own disdaining. 

Dost ask what thou hast not f 
Of the future dreaming. 

Weary of the past, 
For the present scheming — 

An but what thou hast. 

No, thou art delighting 

In thy summer home ; 
Where the flowers inviting 

Tempt the bee to roam ; 
Where the cowslip, bending 

With its golden bells, 
Of each glad hour's ending 

With a sweet chime teUs. 

All wild creatures love him 

When he is alone ; 
Eveiy bird above him 

Sings its softest tone. 
Thankful to high Heaven, 

Humble in thy joy. 
Much to thee is given. 

Lowly shepherd boy. 

L^TiTiA Elizabeth Landon. 



®o tng iHaugljter. 

Dear Fanny ! nine long years ago. 
While yet the morning sun was low. 
And rosy with the eastern glow 

The landscape smiled ; , 

Whilst lowed the newly-wakened herds — 
Sweet as the early song of birds, 
I heard those first, delightful words, 

" Thou hast a child ! " 



Along with that uprising dew 

Tears glistened in my eyes, though few. 

To hail a dawning quite as new 

To me, as Time : 
It was not sorrow — not annoy — 
But like a happy maid, though coy. 
With grief-like welcome, even Joy 

Forestalls its prime. 

So may'st thou live, dear ! many years. 

In all the bliss that life endears. 

Not without smiles, nor yet from tears, 

Too strictly kept. 
When first thy infant littleness 
I folded in my fond caress, 
The greatest proof of happiness 

Was this — I wept. 

Thomas Hood. 



fiittU Boa Blue. 

When the corn-fields and meadows 
Are pearled with the dew. 

With the first sunny shadow 
Walks nttle Boy Blue. 

Oh the Nymphs and the Graces 

StiU gleam on his eyes. 
And the kind fairy faces 

Look down from the skies ; 

And a secret revealing 

Of life within life. 
When feeling meets feeling 

In musical strife ; 

A winding and weaving 

In flowers and in trees, 
A floating and heaving 

In sunlight and breeze ; 

A striving and soaring, 

A gladness and grace. 
Make him kneel half-adoring 

The God in the place. 

Then amid the live shadows 

Of lambs at their play. 
Where the kine scent the meadows 

With breath like the May, 



LITTLE BED RIDING HOOD. 



137 



Jfcle stands in the splendor 

That waits on the morn, 
And a music more tender 

Distils from his horn ; 

And he weeps, he rejoices, 

He prays ; nor in vain. 
For soft loving voices 

Will answer again ; 

And the Nymphs and the Graces 
Still gleam through the dew. 

And kind fairy faces 
Watch little Boy Blue. 

Anontmotjs. 



Come back, come back together, 

All ye fancies of the past, 
Ye days of April weather. 

Ye shadows that are east 
By the haunted hours before ! 
Come back, come back, my Childhood ; 

Thou art summoned by a spell 
Prom the green leaves of the wildwood. 

From beside the charmed well. 

For Eed Riding Hood, the darling. 
The flower of fairy lore ! 

The fields were covered over 

With colors as she went ; 
Daisy, buttercup, and clover 

Below her footsteps bent ; 
Summer shed its shining store ; 
She was happy as she pressed them 

Beneath her little feet ; 
She plucked them and caressed them ; 

They were so very sweet. 

They had never seemed so sweet before. 
To Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
The flower of fairy lore. 

How the heart of childhood dances 

Upon a sunny day ! 
It has its own romances, 

And a wide, wide world have they ! 



\ 



A world where Phantasie is king, 
Made all of eager dreaming ; 

When once grown up and tall — 
Now is the time for scheming — 
Then we shall do them all ! 

Do such pleasant fancies spring 
For Red Riding Hood, the darling. 
The flower of fairy lore ? 

She seems like an ideal love, 

The poetry of childhood shown, 
And yet loved with a real love. 

As if she were our own — 
A younger sister for the heart ; 
Like the woodland pheasant, 

Her hair is brown and bright ; 
And her smile is pleasant. 

With its rosy light. 

Never can the memory part 
With Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
The flower of fairy lore. 

Did the painter, dreaming 

In a morning hour. 
Catch the fairy seeming 
Of this fairy flower ? 
Winning it with eager eyes 
From the old enchanted stories, 
Lingering with a long delight 
On the unforgotten glories 
Of the infant sight? 

Giving us a sweet surprise 
In Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
The flower of fairy lore ? 



Too long in the meadow staying, 

Where the cowslip bends. 
With the buttercups delaying 
As with early friends. 

Did the little maiden stay. 
Sorrowful the tale for us ; 

We, too, loiter mid life's flowers, 
A little while so glorious, 
So soon lost in darker hours. 

All love lingering on their way. 
Like Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
The flower of fairy lore. 

L^TiTiA Elizabeth Landok-. 



128 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



€l)e pcb Ppcr of f atnclin. 
I. 

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, 
By famous Hanover city ; 

The river Weser, deep and wide, 

Washes its wall on the southern side ; 

A pleasanter spot you never spied ; 
But when begins my ditty, 

Almost five hundred years ago, 

To see the townsfolk suffer so 
From vermin, was a pity. 

Rats ! °- 

They fought the dogs, and killed the cats. 

And bit the babies in the cradles. 
And ate the cheeses out of the vats. 

And licked the soup fi-om the cook's own ladles, 
Split open the kegs of salted sprats, 
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats. 
And even spoiled the women's chats. 

By drowning their speaking 

"With shrieking and squeaking 
In fifty difEerent sharps and flats. 

III. 
At last the people in a body 

To the Town Hall came flocking : 
" 'Tis clear," cried they, " our Mayor's a noddy ; 

And as for our Corporation — shocking 
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine 
For dolts that can't or won't determine 
What's best to rid us of our vermin ! 
You hope, because you're old and obese. 
To find in the furry civic robe ease ? 
Rouse up, Sirs ! Give your brains a racking 
To find the remedy we're lacking. 
Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing ! " 
At this the Mayor and Corporation 
Quaked with a mighty consternation. 

IV. 

'An hour they sate in counsel — 

At length the Mayor broke silence : 

" For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell ; 
I wish I were a mile hence ! 

It's easy to bid one rack one's brain — 

I'm sure my poor head aches again, 

I've scratched it so, and all in vain. 



Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap ! " 

Just as he said this, what should hap 

At the chamber door but a gentle tap ? 

" Bless us," cried the Mayor, " what's that ? " 

(With the Corporation as he sat. 

Looking little though wondrous fat ; 

Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister 

Than a too-long-opened oyster, 

Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous 

For a plate of turtle, green and glutinous,) 

" Only a scraping of shoes on the mat ? 

Anything like the sound of a rat 

Makes my heart go pit-a-pat ! " 



" Come in ! " — the Mayor cried, looking bigger ; 
And in did come the strangest figure : 
His queer long coat from heel to head 
Was half of yellow and half of red ; 
And he himself was tall and thin ; 
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin ; 
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin ; 
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin. 
But lips where smiles went out and in — 
There was no guessing his kith and kin ! 
And nobody could enough admire 
The tall man and his quaint attire. 
Quoth one : " It's as my great-grandsire. 
Starting up at the trump of doom's tone, 
Had walked this way from his painted tomb- 
stone ! " 

VI. 

He advanced to the council-table : 
And, " Please your honors," said he, " I'm able, 
By means of a secret charm, to draw 
AU creatures living beneath the sun. 
That creep, or swim, or fly, or run. 
After me so as you never saw ! 
And I chiefly use my charm 
On creatures that do people harm — 
The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper — 
And people call me the Pied Piper." 
(And here they noticed round his neck 
A scarf of red and yellow stripe, 
To match with his coat of the self -same check ; 
And at the scarf's end hung a pipe ; 
And his flngers, they noticed, were ever stray- 
ing 
As if impatient to be playing 



THE PIED PIPER OF IIAMELIN. 129 


Upon this pipe, as low it dangled 


And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards. 


Over his vesture so old-fangled.) 


And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards. 


" Yet," said he, " poor piper as I am, 


And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks. 


In Tartary I freed the Cham, 


And breaking the hoops of butter-casks ; 


Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats ; 


And it seemed as if a voice 


I eased in Asia the Nizam 


(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery 


Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats ; 


Is breathed) called out, rats, rejoice ! 


And, as for what your brain bewilders — 


The world is grown to one vast drysaltery ! 


If I can rid your town of rats. 


So mimch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon. 


"Will you give me a thousand guilders % " 


Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon ! 


" One? fifty thousand ! " — was the exclamation 


And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon. 


Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. 


All ready staved, like a great sun shone 




Glorious, scarce an inch before me. 


TII. 


Just as methought it said. Come, bore me ! 


Into the street the Piper stept, 


— I found the Weser rolling o'er me." 


Smiling first a little smile, 




As if he knew what magic slept 


Till. 


In his quiet pipe the while ; 


You should have heard the Hamelin people 


Then, like a musical adept. 


Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple ; 


To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, 


" Go," cried the Mayor, " and get long poles ! 


And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled. 


Poke out the nests and block up the holes ! 


Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled ; 


Consult with carpenters and builders. 


And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered. 


And leave in our town not even a trace 


You heard as if an army muttered ; 


Of the rats ! " — when suddenly, up the face 


And the muttering grew to a griimbling ; 


Of the Piper perked in the market-place. 


And the grumbling grew to a mighty rum- 


With a " First, if you please, my thousand guilders !" 


bling; 




And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. 


IX. 


Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats. 


A thousand giiilders ! The Mayor looked blue ! 


Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, 


So did the Corporation too. 


Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, 


For council dinners made rare havock 


Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 


With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock : 


Cocking tails and pricking whiskers ; 


And half the money would replenish . 


Families by tens and dozens. 


Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. 


Brothers, sisters, husbands, Avives — 


To pay this sum to a wandering fellow 


Followed the Piper for their lives. 


With a gipsy coat of red and yellow ! 


From street to street he piped advancing, 


"Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing 


And step for step they followed dancing, 


wink. 


Until they came to the river Weser 


" Our business was done at the river's brink ; 


Wherem all plunged and perished 


We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, 


— Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, 


And what's dead can't come to life, I think. 


Swam across and lived to carry 


So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink 


(As he the manuscript he cherished) 


From the duty of giving you something for 


To Rat-land home his commentary, 


drink. 


TVTiich was : " At the first shrill notes of the 


And a matter of money to put in your poke ; 


pipe. 


But, as for the guilders, what we spoke 


I heard a sound as of scraping tripe. 


Of them, as you very well know, was in joke ; 


And putting apples, wondrous ripe. 


Beside, our losses have made us thrifty ; 


Into a cider-press's gripe — 
II 


A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty ! " 



130 POEMS OF 


CHILDHOOD. 


X. 


And the wretched Council's bosoms beat. 


The Piper's face fell, and he cried, 


As the Piper turned from the High Street 


" No trifling ! I can't wait ! beside, 


To where the Weser rolled its waters 


I've promised to visit by dinner-time 


Right in the way of their sons and daughters ! 


Bagdat, and accept the prime 


However, he turned from South to West, 


Of the head cook's pottage, all he's rich in, 


And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, 


For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, 


And after him the children pressed ; 


Of a nest of scorpions no survivor — 


Great was the joy in every breast. 


With him I proved no bargain-driver, 


" He never can cross that mighty top ! 


"With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver ! 


He's forced to let the piping drop. 


And folks who put me in a passion 


And we shall see our children stop ! " 


May find me pipe to another fashion." 


When, lo, as they reached the mountain's side. 




A wondrous portal opened wide. 


XI. 


As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ; 


" How ? " cried the Mayor, " d'ye think I '11 brook 


And the Piper advanced and the children fol- 


Being worse treated than a cook f 


lowed ; 


Insulted by a lazy ribald 


And when all were in, to the very last. 


With idle pipe and vesture piebald 1 


The door in the mountain-side shut fast. 


You threaten us, fellow f Do your worst, 


Did I say all ? No ! One was lame. 


Blow your pipe there till you burst ! " 


And could not dance the whole of the way ; 




And in after-years, if you would blame 


XII. 


His sadness, he was used to say, — 


Once more he stept into the street ; 


" It's dull in our town since my playmates left ! 


And to his lips again 


I can't forget that I'm bereft 


Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane ; 


Of all the pleasant sights they see, 


And ere he blew three notes (such sweet 


Which the Piper also promised me ; 


Soft notes as yet musician's cunning 


For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, 


Never gave the enraptured air) 


Joining the town and just at hand. 


There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling 


Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, 


Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling ; 


And flowers put forth a fairer hue. 


Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering. 


And every thing was strange and new ; 


Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering. 


The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here. 


And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scat- 


And their dogs outran our fallow deer, 


tering. 


And honey-bees had lost their stings. 


Out came the children running : 


And horses were born with eagles' wings ; 


All the little boys and girls. 


And just as I became assured 


With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls. 


My lame foot would be speedily cured, 


And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls. 


The music stopped and I stood still, 


Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after 


And found myself outside the Hill, 


The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. 


Left alone against my will. 




To go now limping as before. 


XIII. 


And never hear of that country more ! " 


The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood 




As if they were changed into blocks of wood. 


XIV. 


Unable to move a step, or cry 


Alas, alas for Hamelin ! 


To the children merrily skipping by — 


There came into many a burgher's pate 


And could only follow with the eye 


A text which says, that Heaven's gate 


That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. 


Opes to the rich at as easy rate 


But how the Mayor was on the rack, 


As the needle's eye takes a camel in ! 



i 



A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 



131 



The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, 
To offer the Piper by word of mouth, 

"Wherever it was men's lot to fiud him. 
Silver and gold to his heart's content, 
If he'd only return the way he went, 

And bring the childi-en behind him. 
But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, 
And piper and dancers were gone for ever, 
They made a decree that lawyers never 

Should think their records dated duly 
If, after the day of the month and year. 
These words did not as well appear, 
" And so long after what happened here 

On the Twenty-second of July, 
Thirteen Hundred and Seventy-six : " 
And the better in memory to fix 
The place of the Children's last retreat 
They called it the Pied Piper's Street — 
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor 
Was sure for the future to lose his labor. 
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern 

To shock with mirth a street so solemn ; 
But opposite the place of the cavern 

They wrote the story on a column. 
And on the Great Church window painted 
The same, to make the world acquainted 
How their children were stolen away ; 
And there it stands to this very day. 
And I must not omit to say 
That in Transylvania there's a tribe 
Of alien people that ascribe 
The oiitlandish ways and dress 
On which their neighbors lay such stress 
To their fathers and mothers having risen 
Out of some subterranean prison 
Into which they were trepanned 
Long time ago, in a mighty band. 
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land. 
But how or why, they don't understand. 



So, Willy, let yoii and me be wipers 

Of scores out with aU men — especially pipers ; 

And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from 

mice, 

If we've promised them aught, let us keep our 

promise. 

KOBBKT Browning. 



So ©corge ill . 

Yes, I do love thee well, my child ! 

Albeit mine's a wandering mind ; 
But never, darling, hast thou smiled 

Or breathed a wish that did not find 
A ready echo in my heart. 

What hours I've held thee on my knee, 
Thy little rosy lips apart ! 

Or, when asleep, I've gazed on thee, 
And with old tunes sung thee to rest. 

Hugging thee closely to my bosom ; 
For thee my very heart hath blest. 

My Joy, my care, my blue-eyed blossom ! 
Thomas Mn.i.BR. 



% bisit from 6t. Nicl)olas. 

'TwAS the night before Christmas, when aU through 

the house 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse ; 
The stockings were hung by the chimney with 

care. 
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there ; 
The children were nestled aU snug in their beds, 
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their 

heads ; 
And Mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap. 
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's 

nap — 
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 
I sprang from my bed to see what was the mat- 
ter. 
Away to the window I flew like a flash, 
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. 
The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow. 
Gave a lustre of mid-day to objects below ; 
When, what to my wondering eyes should apj)ear. 
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer. 
With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came. 
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them 

by name ; 
"Now, Dasher! now. Dancer! now, Prancer and 

Vixen ! 
On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Donder and Blitzen — 



133 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall ! 
Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all ! " 
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, 
Wlien they meet with an obstacle, mount to the 
sky, 

So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew. 
With the sleigh full of toys — and St. Nicholas too. 
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof 
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. 
As I drew in my head, and was turning around, 
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a 

bound. 
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his 

foot. 
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and 

soot; 
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, 
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. 
His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how 

merry : 
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry ; 
His droll little mouth was drawn up lil<e a bow. 
And the beard on his chin was as white as the 

snow. 
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth. 
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a 

wreath. 
He had a broad face and a little round belly 
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl fuU of 

jelly. 
He was chubby and plump — a right jolly old elf ; 
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. 
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, 
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. 
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his 

work. 
And filled all the stockings ; then turned with a 

jerk. 
And laying his finger aside of his nose. 
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a 

whistle. 
And away they all flew like the down of a 

thistle ; • 

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of 

sight, 
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good- 
night ! " 

Clement C. Mooee. 



8ri)e ®ambol0 of QlljiliJrcn. 

Down the dimpled green-sward dancing. 
Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy — 

Bud-Upt boys and girls advancing, 
Love's irregular little levy. 

Rows of liquid eyes in laughter. 

How they glimmer, how they quiver ! 

Sparkling one another after. 
Like bright ripples on a river. 

Tipsy band of rubious faces, 

Flushed with Joy's ethereal spirit, 

Make your mocks and sly grimaces 
At Love's self, and do not fear it. 

Geokge Darlet. 



Saturlrog Afternoon. 

I LOVE to look on a scene like this, 

Of wild and careless play. 
And persuade myself that I am not old. 

And my locks are not yet gray ; 
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart. 

And makes his pulses fly. 
To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 

And the light of a pleasant eye. 

I have walked the world for fourscore years. 

And they say that I am old — 
That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, 

And my years are well-nigh told. 
It is very true — it is very true — 

I am old, and I " bide my time ; " 
But my heart will leap at a scene like this, 

And I half renew my prime. 

Play on ! play on ! I am with you there, 

In the midst of your merry ring ; 
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump. 

And the rush of the breathless swing. 
I hide with you in the fragrant hay, 

And I whoop the smothered call. 
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor. 

And I care not for the fall. 

I am willing to die when my time shall come. 

And I shall be glad to go — 
For the world, at best, is a weary place, 

And my pulse is getting low ; 



THE SCHOOLinSTRESS. 



133 



But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 

In treading its gloomy way ; 
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness 

To see the young so gay. 

Nathaniel Pakker Willis. 



a;i)e jLittle bagabonb. 

Dear mother, dear mother, the church is cold. 
But the ale-house is healthy, and pleasant, and warm : 
Besides, I can tell where I am used well, 
Such usage in heaven will never do well. 

But if at the church they would give us some ale. 
And a pleasant fire our souls to regale. 
We'd sing and we'd pray aU the live-long day, 
Nor ever once wish from the church to stray. 

Then the parson might preach and drink and sing. 
And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring ; 
And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church. 
Would not have bandy chUdren, nor hiding, nor 
birch ; 

And God, lUce a father rejoicing to see 

His children as pleasant and happy as he. 

Would have no more quarrel with the. devil or the 

barrel. 
But kiss him, and give him both drink and ap- 
parel. William Blake. 



@Cl)e 0r[)oolmistress. 

Ah me ! full sorely is my heart forlorn. 

To think how modest worth neglected lies. 
While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn 

Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise ; 

Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise. 
Lend me thy clarion, goddess ! let me try 

To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies, 
Such as 1 oft have chaunced to espy. 
Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. 

In every village marked with little spire, 
Embowered in trees, and hardly known to Fame, 

There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire, 
A matron old, whom we Schoolmistress name, 
Wlio boasts unruly brats with birch to tame ; 



They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent. 

Awed by the power of this relentless dame ; 
And ofttimes, on vagaries idly bent, 
For unkempt hair, or task unconned, are sorely 
shent. 

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree. 

Which Learning near her little dome did stow. 
Whilom a twig of small regard to see, 

Though now so wide its waving branches flow. 
And work the simple vassals mickle woe ; 
For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, 
But their limbs shuddered, and their pulse beat 
low; 
And as they looked, they found their horror 

grew, 
And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the 
view. 

So have I seen (who has not, may conceive) 

A lifeless phantom near a garden placed ; 
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave, 

Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast ; 

They start, they stare, they wheel, they look 
aghast ; 
Sad servitude ! such comfortless annoy 

May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste ! 
No superstition clog his dance of joy, 
No vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy. 

Near to this dome is foimd a patch so green, 
On which the tribe their gambols do display ; 

And at the door imprisoning-board is seen. 
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray. 
Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day ! 

The noises intermixed, which thence resound, 
Do Learning's little tenement betray ; 

Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound. 

And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel 
around. 

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow. 

Emblem right meet of decency does yield ; 
Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trowe, 

As is the hare-bell that adorns the field ; 

And in her hand for sceptre, she does wield . 
Tway birchen sprays, with anxious fears entwined, 

With dark distrast, and sad repentance filled. 
And stedfast hate, and sharp afliction joined. 
And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind. 



134 



P0E3IS OF CHILDHOOD. 



Few but liave keimed, in seinblance meet jjortrayed, 
The childish faces ol' old Eol's train ; 

Libs, Notus, Anster ; these in frowns arra)'ed, 
How then would fare or earth, or sky, or main, 
Were the stern god to give his slaves the rein? 

And were not she rebellious breasts to quell. 
And were not she her statutes to maintain, 

The cot no more, I ween, were deemed the cell, 

Where comely peace of mind and decent order 
dwell. 

A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown ; 

A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air ; 
'Twas simple russet, but it was her own ; 

'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair ; 

'Twas her own labor did the fleece prepare ; 
And, sooth to say, her pupils, ranged around. 

Through pious awe did term it passing rare ; 
For they in gaping wonderment abound. 
And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight 
on ground ! 

Albeit ne fiatteiy did corrupt her truth, 

Ne pompous title did debauch her ear ; 
Goody, good-woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth, 

Or dame, the sole additions she did hear ; 

Yet these she challenged, these she held right 
dear ; 
Ne would esteem him act as mought behove. 

Who should not honored eld with these revere ; 
For never title yet so mean could prove, 
But there was eke a mind which did that title love. 

One ancient hen she took delight to feed. 

The plodding pattern of the busy dame ; 
Which, ever and anon, impelled by need, 

Into her school, begirt with chickens, came ! 

Such favor did her past deportment claim ; 
And if Neglect had lavished on the ground 

Fragment of bread, she would collect the same; 
For well she knew, and quaintly could expound. 
What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she 
found. 

Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each c(?uld speak. 
That in her garden sipped the silvery dew. 

Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy streak ; 
But herbs for use and physic not a few, 
Of grey renown, within these borders grew ; 



The tufted basil, pim-provoking thyme, 

Fresh balm, and marygold of cheerful hue, 
The lowly gill, that never dares to climb ; 
And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to 
rhyme. 

Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung, 

That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around ; 
And pungent radish, biting infant's tongue ; 

And plantain ribbed, that heals the reaper's 
wound ; 

And marjoram sweet, in shepherd's posie found ; 
And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom 

Shall be erewhile in arid bundles bound, 
To lurk amid the labors of her loom. 
And crown her kerchiefs clean with mickle rai'e 
perfume. 

And here trim roseraarine, that whilom crowned 

The daintiest garden of the proudest peer. 
Ere, driven fi'ora its envied site, it found 

A sacred shelter for its branches here ; 

Where edged with gold its glittering skirts 
appear. 
Oh wassel days ! customs meet and well ! 

Ere this was banished from its lofty sphere ! 
Simplicity then sought this humble cell, 
Nor ever would she more with thane and lordling 
dwell. 

Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent e^'e, 

Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did 
mete. 
If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave, 

But in her garden found a summer-seat ; 

Sweet melody ! to hear her then repeat 
How Israel's sous, beneath a foreign king. 

While taunting foemen did a song entreat, 
All for the nonce untuning every string, 
Uphung their useless lyres — small heart had they 
to sing. 

For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore, 
And passed much time in truly virtuous deed ; 

And in those elfin ears would oft deplore 

The times when truth by Popish rage did bleed, 
And tortuous death was true devotion's meed, 

And simple Faith in iron chains did mourn. 
That nould on wooden image place her creed ; 



THE SCROOLIIISTRESS. 



135 



And lawny saints in smouldering flames did bum ; 
Ah, dearest Lord, forefeud thilk days should e'er 
return ! 

In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem 
By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defaced. 

In which, when he receives his diadem, 

Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is placed. 
The matron sate, and some with rank she 
graced, 

(The source of children's and of courtiers' pride !) 
Redressed aifronts, for vile affronts there 
passed ; 

And warned them not the fretful to deride, 

But love each other dear, whatever them betide. 

Right well she knew each temper to descry ; 

To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise ; 
Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high. 

And some entice with pittance small of praise ; 

And other some with baleful sprig she frays ; 
E'en absent, she the reins of power doth hold, 

"VVliile with quaint arts the giddy crowd she 
sways ; 
Forewarned if little bird their pranks behold, 
'Twill whisper in her ear and all the scene un- 
fold. 

Lo ! now with state she utters the command ; 

Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair ; 
Their books of stature small they take in hand. 

Which with pellucid horn secured are, 

To save from fingers wet the letters fair ; 
The work so gay, that on their back is seen, 

St. George's high achievements doth declare ; 
On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been, 
Kens the forthcoming rod — unpleasing sight I 
ween ! 

Ah luckless he, and born beneath the beam 
Of evil star ! it irks me while I write; 

As erst the bard by Mulla's silver stream. 
Oft as he told of deadly, dolorous Jilight, 
Sighed as he sung, and did in tears indite. 

For, brandishing the rod, she doth begin 

To loose the brogues, the stripling's late de- 
light ! 

And down they drop ; appears his dainty skin. 

Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin. 



ruthf ul scene ! when from a nook obscure, 

His little sister doth his peril see ; 
All playful as she sate, she grows demure ; 

She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee ; 

She meditates a prayer to set him free ; 
Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny, 

(If gentle pardon could with dames agree) 
To her sad grief, which swells in either eye. 
And wrings her so that all for pity she could die. 

No longer can she now her shrieks command, 

And hardly she forbears, through awful fear. 
To rushen forth, and with presumptuous hand 

To stay harsh justice in his mid-career. 

On thee she calls, on thee, her parent dear ! 
(Ah ! too remote to ward the shameful blow !) 

She sees no kind domestic visage near ; 
And soon a flood of tears begins to flow. 
And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. 

But ah ! what pen his piteous plight may trace ? 

Or what device his loud laments explain % 
The form rmcouth of his disguised face % 

The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain ? 

The plenteous shower that does his cheek dis- 
tain? 
When he in abject wise implores the dame, 

Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain ; 
Or when from high she levels well her aim, 
And through the thatch his cries each falling 
stroke proclaim. 

The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay. 
Attend, and con their tasks with mickle care ; 

By turns, astonied every twig survey. 
And from their fellow's hateful wounds beware. 
Knowing, I wis, how each the same may share. 

Till fear has taught them a performance meet. 
And to the well-known chest the dame repair. 

Whence oft with sugared cates she doth them 
greet. 

And ginger-bread y-rare; now, certes, doubly 
sweet. 

See to their seats they hie with merry glee. 

And in beseemly order sitten there ; 
All but the wight of bum y-galled ; he 

Abhorreth bench, and stool, and fourm, and 
chair, 



136 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



(This hand m mouth y-fixed, that rends his 
hair ;) 
And eke with snubs profound, and heaving breast, 

Comnilsions intermitting, doth declare 
His grievous wrong, his dame's unjust behest ; 
And scorns her offered love, and shuns to be ca- 
ressed. 

His face besprent with liquid crystal shines, 

His blooming face that seems a purple flower, 
Which low to earth its drooping head declines. 

All smeared and sullied by a vernal shower. 

Oh the hard bosoms of despotic power ! 
All, all but she, the author of his shame. 

All, all but she, regret this mournful hour ; 
Yet hence the youth, and hence the flower shall 

claim. 
If so I deem aright, transcending worth and 
fame. 

Behind some door, in melancholy thought. 

Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff ! pines ; 
Ne for his fellows' joyaunce careth aught, 

But to the wind all merriment resigns ; 

And deems it shame if he to peace inclines ; 
And many a sullen look askance is sent, 

Which for his dame's annoyance he designs ; 
And still the more to pleasure him she's bent. 
The more doth he, perverse, her 'haviour past 
resent. 

Ah me ! how much I fear lest pride it be ! 

But if that pride it be, which thus inspires. 
Beware, ye dames, with nice discernment see. 

Ye quench not too the sparks of noble fires. 

Ah ! better far than aU the Muses' lyres, 
All coward arts, is valor's generous heat ; 

The firm fixt breast which fit and right requires. 
Like Vernon's patriot soul ! more justly great 
Than craft that pimps for ill or flowery false 
deceit. 

Yet nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits appear ! 

E'en now sagacious Foresight points to show 
A little bench of heedless bishops here, • 

And there a chancellor in embryo. 

Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so. 
As Milton, Shakespeare, names that ne'er shall die ! 

Though now he crawl along the ground so low. 



Nor weeting how the Muse should soar on high, 
Wisheth, poor starveling elf ! his paper kite may 

fly- 

And this perhaps, who, censuring the design. 

Low lays the house which that of cards doth 
build, 
Shall Dennis be ! if rigid Fate incline. 

And many an epic to his rage shall yield ; 

And many a poet quit th' Aonian field. 
And, soured by age, profound he shall appear, 

As he who now with 'sdainful fury thrilled - 
Surveys mine work ; and levels many a sneer. 
And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, " What 
stuff is here ? " 

And now Dan Phoebus gains the middle side, 
And Liberty unbars her prison-door ; 

And like a rushing torrent out they fly. 
And now the grassy cirque had covered o'er 
With boisterous revel-rout and wild uproar ; 

A thousand ways in wanton rings they run ; 
Heaven shield their short-lived pastimes, I im- 
plore ! 

For well may freedom erst so dearly won, 

Appear to British elf more gladsome than the 
sun. 

Enjoy, poor imps ! enjoy your sportive trade. 
And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers, 

For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid ; 
For never may ye taste more careless hours 
In knightly castles, or in ladies' bowers. 

Oh vain to seek delight in earthly thing ! 
But most in courts where proud Ambition 
towers ; 

Deluded wight ! who weens fair peace can spring 

Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king. 

See in each sprite some various bent appear ! 

These rudely carol most incondite lay ; 
Those sauntering on the green, with jocund leer 

Salute the stranger passing on his way ; 

Some builden fragile tenements of clay ; 
Some to the standing lake their courses bend, 

With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to 
play; 
Thilk to the hunter's savory cottage tend. 
In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite to 
spend. 



ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. 



137 



Here as each season yields a different store, 
Each season's stores in order ranged been ; 

Apples with cabbage-net y-covered o'er, 

GaUing full sore th' unmoneyed wight, are seen : 
And goose-b'rie clad in livery red or green ; 

And here of lovely dye, the Catharine pear, 
Fuie peai- ! as lovely for thy juice, I ween : 

may no wight e'er peiinyless come there. 

Lest smit with ardent love he pine with hopeless 
care! 

See ! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound. 

With thread so white in tempting posies ty'd. 
Scattering Uke blooming maid their glances round, 

With pampered look draw Little eyes aside ; 

And must be bought, though penury betide. 
The plumb aU azui-e and the nut aU brown. 

And here each season do those cakes abide 
Whose honored names th' inventive city own. 
Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's praises 
known. 

Admired Salopia ! that with venial pride 

Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient 
wave. 
Famed for her loyal cares in perils tried. 

Her daughters lovely, and her striplings brave ; 

Ah ! midst the rest, may flowers adorn his 
grave, 
Whose art did first these dulcet cates display ! 

A motive fair to Learning's imps he gave, 

Who cheerless o'er her darkling region stray, 

TUl Reason's morn arise, and light them on their 

way. 

William Shenstone. 



®n a IDistant prospect of €ton dloUcgc. 

Ye distant spii'es, ye antique towers. 

That crown the watery glade, 
Where grateful Science stiU adores 

Her Henry's holy shade ; 
And ye that from the stately brow 
Of Windsor's heights the expanse below 

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, 
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among 
Wanders the hoary Tliames along 

His silver winding wav : 



Ah, happy hUls ! ah, pleasing shade ! 

Ah, fields beloved in vain ! — 
Where once my careless chLldhood strayed, 

A stranger yet to pain ! 
I feel the gales that from ye blow 
A momentary bliss bestow. 

As, waving fresh their gladsome wing. 
My weary soul they seem to soothe, 
And, redolent of joy and youth, 

To breathe a second spring. 

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen 

FuU. many a sprightly race, 
Disporting on thy margent green. 

The paths of pleasure trace ; 
Who foremost now delight to cleave. 
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave ? 

The captive linnet which enthrall ? 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase the rolling circle's speed, 

Or urge the flying ball ? 

While some, on urgent business bent, 

Their murmuring labors ply 
'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint 

To sweeten liberty ; 
Some bold adventurers disdain 
The limits of their little reign, 

And unknown regions dare descry ; 
StiU as they run they look behind. 
They hear a voice in every wind. 

And snatch a fearful joy. 

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, 

Less pleasing when possest ; 
The tear forgot as soon as shed. 

The sunshine of the breast : 
Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue. 
Wild wit, invention ever new. 

And lively cheer, of vigor born ; 
The thoughtless day, the easy night, 
The spirits pure, the slumbers light, 

That fly the approach of mom. 

Alas ! regardless of their doom. 

The little victims play ! 
No sense have they of ills to come, 

Nor care beyond to-day ; 
Tet see, how all around them wait 
The ministers of human fate, 



138 



P0E3IS OF CHILDHOOD. 



And black misfortune's baleful train ! 
Ah, show them where in ambush stand, 
To seize their prey, the murderous band ! 

Ah, tell them, they are men ! 

These shall the fury passions tear, 

The "\Tiltures of the mind, 
Disdainful anger, pallid fear. 

And shame that skulks behind ; 
Or pining love shall waste their youth. 
Or jealousy, with rankling tooth. 

That inly gnaws the secret heart ; 
And en'\'y wan, and faded care, 
Grim-visaged, comfortless despair, 

And sorrow's piercing dart. 

Ambition this shall tempt to rise. 

Then whirl the wretch from high, 
To bitter scorn a sacrifice, 

And grinning infamy ; 
The stings of falsehood those shall try, 
And hard unkindness' altered eye, 

That mocks the tears it forced to flow ; 
And keen remorse, with blood defiled, 
And moody madness, laughing wild 

Amid severest woe. 

Lo ! in the vale of years beneath 

A grisly troop are seen. 
The painful family of death. 

More hideous than their queen ; 
This racks the joints, this fires the veins. 
That every laboring sinew strains. 

Those in the deeper vitals rage : 
Lo ! poverty, to fill the band. 
That numbs the soul with icy hand, 

And slow-consuming age. 

To each his sufferings : all are men, 

Condemned alike to groan ; 
The tender for another's pain. 

The unfeeling for his own. 
Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate. 
Since sorrow never comes too late. 

And happiness too swiftly flies ? ' 

Thought would destroy their paradise. 

No more : — where ignorance is bliss, 

'Tis folly to be wise ! 

Thomas Gray. 



®l)e (lll)ilbren in tlje toooir. 

Now ponder well, you parents dear, 

The words which I shall wiite ; 
A doleful story you shall hear. 

In time brought forth to light : 
A gentleman of good account. 

In Norfolk lived of late. 
Whose wealth and riches did surmount 

Most men of his estate. 

Sore sick he was, and like to die. 

No help then he could have ; 
His wife by him as sick did lie, 

And both possessed one grave. 
No love between these two was lost, 

Each was to other kind ; 
In love they lived, in love they died. 

And left two babes behind : 

The one a fine and pretty boy. 

Not passing three years old ; 
The other a girl, more young than he, 

And made in beauty's movdd. 
The father left his little son, 

As plainly doth appear, 
When he to perfect age should come. 

Three hundred pounds a year — 

And to his little daughter Jane 

Five hundred pounds in gold. 
To be paid down on marriage-day, 

Which might not be controlled ; . 
But if the children chanced to die 

Ere they to age should come. 
Their uncle should possess their wealth, 

For so the will did run. 

" Now, brother," said the dying man, 

" Look to my children dear ; 
Be good unto my boy and girl. 

No friends else I have here ; 
To God and you I do commend 

My children, night aiid day ; 
But little while, be sure, we have. 

Within this world to stay. 

" You must be father and mother both. 

And uncle, all in one ; 
God knows what will become of them 

When I am dead and gone." 



THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD. 139 


With thcat bespake their mother dear, 


So that the pretty speech they had. 


" brother kind," quoth she. 


Made Murder's heart relent ; 


" You are the man must bring our babes 


And they that undertook the deed 


To wealth or misery. 


Pidl sore they did repent. 




Yet one of them, more hard of heart. 


" And if you keep them carefully, 


Did vow to do his charge, 


Then God will you reward ; 


Becaiise the wretch that hired him 


If otherwise you seem to deal, 


Had paid him very large. 


God will your deeds regard." 




With lips as cold as any stone, 


The other would not agree thereto, 


She kissed her children small : 


So here they fell at strife ; 


" God bless you both, my children dear," 


With one another they did fight. 


With that the tears did fall. 


About the children's life ; 




And he that was of mildest mood, 


These speeches then their brother spake 


Did slay the other there, 


To this sick couple there : 


Within an imfrequented wood ; 


" The keeping of your children dear. 


While babes did quake for fear. 


Sweet sister, do not fear ; 




God never prosper me nor mine, 


He took the children by the hand, 


Nor aught else that I have, 


When tears stood in their eye. 


If I do wrong your children dear. 


And bade them come and go with him. 


When you are laid in grave." 


And look they did not cry ; 




And two long miles he led them on. 


Their parents being dead and gone. 


While they for food complain : 


The children home he takes, 


" Stay here," quoth he, " I'll bring you bread, 


And brings them home unto his house. 


When I do come again." 


And much of them he makes. 




He had not kept these pretty babes 


These pretty babes, with hand in hand. 


A twelvemonth and a day, 


Went wandering up and down. 


But, for their wealth, he did devise 


But never more they saw the man, 


To make them both away. 


Approaching from the town. 




Their pretty lips, with black-berries, 


He bargained with two ruffians strong. 


Were aU besmeared and dyed. 


Which were of furious mood. 


And, when they saw the darksome night. 


Tlmt they should take these children young, 


They sate them down and cried. 


And slay them in a wood. 




He told his wife, and all he had, 


Thus wandered these two pretty babes, 


He did the children send 


Till death did end their grief ; 


To be brought up in fair London, 


In one another's arms they died, 


With one that was his friend. 


As babes wanting relief. 




No burial these pretty babes 


Away then went these pretty babes, 


Of any man receives, 


Rejoicing at that tide, 


Till robin redbreast, painfully, 


Eejoicing with a merry mind. 


Did cover them with leaves. 


They should on cock-horse ride ; 




They prate and prattle pleasantly, 


And now the hea^-y wrath of God 


As they rode on the way, 


Upon their uncle fell ; 


To those that should their butchers be, 


Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, 


And work their lives' decay. 


His conscience felt an hell. 



140 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



His barns were fired, his goods consumed, 

His lands were barren made ; 
His cattle died within the field, 

And nothing with him stayed. 

And, in the voyage of Portugal, 

Two of his sons did die ; 
And, to conclude, himself was brought 

To extreme misery. 
He pawned and mortgaged all his land 

Ere seven years came about ; 
And now, at length this wicked act 
Did by this means come out : 

The fellow that did take in hand 

These children for to kill. 
Was for a robber judged to die, 

As was God's blessed will ; 
"Who did confess the very truth, 

The which is here expressed ; 
Their uncle died while he, for debt. 

In prison long did rest. 

You that executors be made. 

And overseers eke ; 
Of children that be fatherless. 

And infants mild and meek. 
Take you example by this thing, 

And yield to each his right. 
Lest God, with such like misery. 

Your wicked minds requite. 

Anontmotjs. 



iLflba ^nn l3otI)mcirs tavxtnt. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe ; 
If thou'st be silent, I'se be glad. 
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad. 
Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy ! 
Thy father breides me great annoy. 

Balow, my habe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

When he began to court my luve. 
And with his sugred words to muve. 
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire. 
To me that time did not appeire : 



But now I see, most cruell hee. 
Cares neither for my babe nor mee. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

It grieves me sair to see thee iveipe. 

Lj stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile. 
And when thou wakest sweitly smile ; 
But smile not, as thy father did, 
To cozen maids ; nay, God forbid ! 
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire. 
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

I can nae chuse, but ever will 
Be luving to thy father stil : 
Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde. 
My luve with him maun stD. abyde : 
In well or wae, whair-eir he gae, 
Mine hart can neir depart him frae. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe ! 

But doe not, doe not, prettie mine. 
To faynings fals thine hart incline ; 
Be loyal to thy luver trew. 
And nevir change hir for a new ; 
If gude or faire, of hir have care. 
For women's banning's wonderous sair. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane. 

Thy winsome smiles maun else my paine ; 

My babe and I'll together live, 

He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve ; 

My babe and I right saf t will ly, 

And quite forget man's cruelty. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

Farewell, farewell, thou falsest youth 
That ever kist a woman's mouth ! 
I wish all maids be warned by mee, 
Nevir to trust man's curtesy : 
For if we doe but chance to bow, 
They'll use us than they care not how. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 
Anonymous. 



HER EYES ARE WILD. 



141 



Whilst, around her lone ark sweeping, 

"Wailed the winds and waters wild. 
Her young cheeks all wan with weeping, 

Danae clasped her sleeping child ; 
And " Alas," cried she, " my dearest, 

"What deep wrongs, what woes, are mine ! 
But nor wrongs nor woes thou fearest. 

In that sinless rest of thine. 
Faint the moonbeams break above thee, 

And, within here, all is gloom ; 
But fast wrapt in arms that love thee. 

Little reck'st thou of our doom. 
Not the rude spray round thee flying. 

Has e'en damped thy clustering hair, — 
On thy purple mantlet lying, 

mine Innocent, my Pair ! 
Yet, to thee were sorrow sorrow, 

Thou would'st lend thy little ear. 
And this heart of thine might borrow 

Haply yet a moment's cheer. 
But no ; slumber on. Babe, slumber ; 

Slumber, Ocean-waves ; and you. 
My dark troubles, without number, — 

Oh, that ye would slumber too ! 
Though with wrongs they've brimmed my chalice. 

Grant, Jove, that, in future years. 
This boy may defeat their mahce. 

And avenge his mother's tears ! " 

SiMONiDES. (Greek.) 
Translation of William Peter. 



Ah, then how sweetly closed those crowded 

days ! 
The minutes parting one by one like rays. 

That fade upon a summer's eve. 
But oh ! what charm, or magic numbers 
Can give me back the gentle slumbers 

Those weary, happy days did leave ? 
"When by my bed I saw my mother kneel. 
And with her blessing took her nightly kiss ; 
"Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this — 
E'en now that nameless kiss I feel. 

Washington Allston. 



^er (Eges axz tDilb. 

Her eyes are wUd, her head is bare, 
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair ; 
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain, 
And she came far from over the main. 
She had a baby on her arm. 

Or else she were alone ; 
And underneath the hay-stack warm. 

And on the greenwood stone. 
She talked and sung the woods among. 
And it was in the English tongue. 

" Sweet babe ! they say that I am mad. 
But nay, my heart is far too glad : 
And I am happy when I sing 
Full many a sad and doleful thing. 
Then, lovely baby, do not fear ! 

I pray thee Iiave no fear of me ; 
But safe as in a cradle, here. 

My lovely baby ! thou shalt be. 
To thee I know too much I owe ; 
I cannot work thee any woe. 

" A fire was once within my brain. 
And in my head a duU, dull pain ; 
And fiendish faces, one, two, three. 
Hung at my breast, and pulled at me. 
But then there came a sight of Joy ; 

It came at once to do me good : 
I waked, and saw my little boy, 

My little boy of flesh and blood ; 
Oh joy for me that sight to see ! 
For he was here, and only he. 

" Suck, little babe, oh suck again ! 
It cools my blood ; it cools my brain ; 
Thy lips, I feel them, baby ! they 
Draw from my heart the pain away. 
Oh press me with thy little hand ! 

It loosens something at my chest ; 
About that tight and deadly band 

I feel thy little fingers prest. 
The breeze I see is in the tree — 
It comes to cool my babe and me. 

" Oh love me, love me, little boy ! 
Thou art thy mother's only joy ; 
And do not dread the waves below. 
When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go ; 



143 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



The high crag cannot work me harm, 
Nor leapmg torrents when they howl ; 

The babe I carry on my arm, 
He saves for me my j)recious soul ; 

Then happy lie ; for blest am I ; 

Without me my sweet babe would die. 

" Then do not fear, my boy ! for thee 
Bold as a lion will I be ; 
And 1 will always be thy guide. 
Through hollow snows and rivers wide. 
I'll build an Indian bower ; I know 

The leaves that make the softest bed ; 
And, if from me thou wilt not go, 

But stUl be true till I am dead. 
My pretty thing ! then thou shalt sing 
As merry as the bu'ds in Spring. 

" Thy father cares not for my breast, 
'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest ; 
'Tis aU thine own ! — and if its hue 
Be changed, that was so fair to view, 
'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove ! 

My beauty, little child, is flown. 
But thou wilt live with me in love ; 

And what if my poor cheek be brown f 
'Tis well for me thou canst not see 
How pale and wan it else would be. 

"Dread not their taunts, my little Life ; 

I am thy father's wedded wife : 

And underneath the spreading tree 

We two will live in honesty. 

If his sweet boy he could forsake. 

With me he never would have stayed. 
From him no harm my babe can take ; 

But he, poor man, is wretched made ; 
And every day we two will pray 
For him that's gone and far away. 

" I'll teach my boy the sweetest things : 

I'll teach him how the owlet sings. 

My little babe ! thy lips are still. 

And thou hast almost sucked thy fill. 

— Where art thou gone, my own deaj; child \ 

What wicked looks are those I see f 
Alas ! alas ! that look so wild. 

It never, never came from me. 
If thou art mad, my pretty lad, 
Then I must be for ever sad. 



" Oh smile on me, my little lamb ! 
For I thy own dear mother am. 
My love for thee has well been tried ; 
I've sought thy father far and wide. 
I know the poisons of the shade ; 

I know the earth-nuts fit for food. 
Then, jjretty dear, be not afraid ; 

We'll find thy father in the wood. 
Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away ! 
And there, my babe, we'U live for aye." 

William Woedsworth. 



" Why would'st thou leave me, gentle child ? 
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild — 
A straw-roofed cabin, with lowly wall ; 
Mine is a fair and a pillared hall. 
Where many an image of marble gleams, 
And the sunshine of picture for ever streams." 

" Oh ! green is the turf where my brothers play. 
Through the long bright hours of the summer's 

day; 
They find the red cup-moss where they climb, 
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme. 
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they 

know ; 
Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go." 

" Content thee, boy ! in my bower to dwell ; 
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well : 
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon, 
Harps which the wandering breezes tune. 
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird 
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard." 

" Oh ! my mother sings, at the twilight's fall, 
A song of the hills far more sweet than all ; 
She sings it under our own green tree 
To the babe half slumbering on her knee ; 
I dreamt last night of that music low — 
Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go." 

" Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest ; 
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast ; 
Thou would'st meet her footstep, my boy, no more, 
Nor hear her song at the cabin door. 



LUCY GRAY. 



143 



Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh, 
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye." 

" Is my mother gone from her home away ? — 
But I linow that my brothers are there at play — 
I know they are gathering the fox-glove's bell, 
Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well ; 
Or they launch their boats where the bright streams 

flow — 
Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go." 

" Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now ; 
They sport no more on the mountain's brow ; 
They have left the fern by the spring's green 

side, 
And the streams where the fairy barks were tied. 
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot, 
For thy cabin home is a lonely spot." 

" Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill ? — 
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still ; 
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free, 
And the heath is bent by the singing bee, 
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow ; 
Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go." 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray ; 

And, when I crossed the wild, 
I chanced to see, at break of day, 

The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; 

She dwelt on a wide moor, — 
The sweetest thing that ever grew 

Beside a human door. 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
The hare upon the green ; 

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
Will never more be seen. 

" To-night will be a stormy night,— 
You to the town must go ; 

And take a lantern, Child, to light 
Your mother through the snow." 



" That, Father, will I gladly do ; 

'Tis scarcely afternoon, — 
The minster-clock has just struck two, 

And yonder is the moon." 

At this the father raised his hook, 

And snapped a fagot-band. 
He plied his work ; — and Lucy took 

The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe — 

With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet disperse the powdery snow 

That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time ; 

She wandered up and down ; 
And many a hill did Lucy climb. 

But never reached the town. 

The wretched parents all that night 

Went shouting far and wide ; 
But there was neither sound nor sight 

To serve them for a guide. 

At daybreak on the hill they stood 

That overlooked the moor ; 
And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 

A furlong from their door. 

They wept, — and, turning homeward, cried, 
" In heaven we all shall meet ; " — 

When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy's feet. 

Then downward from the steep hill's edge 
They tracked the footmarks small ; 

And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, 
And by the low stone-wall ; 

And then an open field they crossed — 
The marks were still the same — 

They tracked them on, nor ever lost ; 
And to the bridge they came. 

They followed from the snowy bank 

Those footmarks, one by one. 
Into the middle of the plank ; 

And further there were none ! 



144 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



— Yet some maintain that to this day 

She is a living child ; 
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 

Upon the lonesome wild. 

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 

And never looks behind ; 
And sings a solitary song 

That whistles in the wind. 

William Woedswokth. 



% Eemetnber, 3 Kcntctnbcr. 

1 REMEMBER, I remember 

The house where I was born, 
The little window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn ; 
He never came a wink too soon, 

Nor brought too long a day ; 
But now, I often wish the night 

Had borne my breath away ! 

1 remember, 1 remember 

The roses, red and white, 
The violets, and the lily-cups — 

Those flowers made of light ! 
The lilacs where the robin built, 

And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birth-day, — 

The tree is living yet ! 

1 remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing. 
And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing ; 
My spirit flew in feathers then. 

That is so heavy now. 
And summer pool could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow ! 

I remember, 1 remember 

The fir-trees dark and high ; 
I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky. , 

It was a childish ignorance. 

But now 'tis little joy 
To know I'm farther off from Heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 

Thomas Hood. 



®l)e Cl)Ubren's f oxtr. 

BETWEE>f the dark and the daylight, 
When the night is beginning to lower, 

Comes a pause in the day's occupations. 
That is known as the children's hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 

The patter of little feet. 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

Prom my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad haU stair, 

Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper and then a silence : 
Yet I know by their merry eyes 

They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 

A sudden raid from the hall, 
By three doors left unguarded, 

They enter my castle wall. 

They climb up into my turret, 

O'er the arms and back of my chair ; 

If I try to escape, they surround me ; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their arms about me entwine, 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen, 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine. 

Do you think, blue-eyed banditti, 
Because yoii have scaled the wall, 

Such an old moustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all ? 

I have you fast in my fortress. 

And will not let you depart. 
But put you into the dungeon 

In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever, 

Yes, forever and a day. 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin. 

And moulder in dust away. 

Henkt Wadswokth Longfellow. 



WE ARE 


SEVEN. ' 145 




She had a rustic, woodland air, 


Enbcr mg toinboto. 


And she was wildly clad ; 




Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; 


Under my window, under my window, 


Her beauty made me glad. 


All in the Midsummer weather. 




Three little girls with fluttering curls 


" Sisters and brothers, little maid, 


Flit to and fro together : — 


How many may you be ? " 


There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, 


" How many ? Seven in all," she said, 


And Maud with her mantle of silver-green. 


And wondering looked at me. 


And Kate with her scarlet feather. 






" And where are they ? I pray you tell." 


Under my window, under my window, 


She answered : " Seven are we ; 


Leaning stealthily over, 


And two of us at Conway dwell. 


Merry and clear, the voice I hear. 


And two are gone to sea. 


Of each glad-hearted rover. 




Ah ! sly little Kate, she steals my roses ; 


" Two of us in the churchyard lie. 


And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies, 


My sister and my brother ; 


As merry as bees in clover. 


And, in the churchyard cottage, I 




Dwell near them with my mother." 


Under m.y window, imder my window. 




In the blue Midsummer weather. 


" You say that two at Conway dwell, 


Stealing slow, on a hushed tip-toe. 


And two are gone to sea. 


I catch them all together : 


Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell. 


Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen. 


Sweet maid, how this may be." 


And Maud with her mantle of silver-green. 




And Kate with the scarlet feather. 


Then did the little maid reply : 


• 


" Seven boys and girls are we ; 


Under my window, under my window. 


Two of us in the churchyard lie, 


And off through the orchard closes ; 


Beneath the churchyard tree." 


"While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts. 

They scamper and drop their posies ; 
But dear little Kate takes naught amiss. 




" You run about, my little maid ; 
Your limbs they are alive ; 


And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss, 


If two are in the churchyard laid, 


And I give her all my roses. 


Then ye are only five." 


Thomas Wbstwood. 






" Their graves are green, they may be seen," 




The little maid replied ; 




" Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, 


tDc art QeDcn. 


And they are side by side. 


A sraPLE child. 


" My stockings there I often knit. 


That lightly draws its breath, 


My kerchief there I hem ; 


And feels its life in every limb. 


And there upon the ground I sit, 


What should it know of death ? 


And sing a song to them. 


I met a little cottage girl : 


" And often after sunset, sir, 


She was eight years old, she said. 


Wlien it is light and fair. 


Her hair was thick with many a curl 


I take my little porringer, 


That clustered round her head. 

12 


And eat my supper there. 



146 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



" The first that died was sister Jane ; 

In bed she moaning lay, 
Till Grod released her of her pain ; 

And tlien she went away. 

" So in the churchyard she was laid ; 

And, when the grass was dry. 
Together round her grave we played, 

My brother John and I. 

" And when the ground was white with snow. 

And I could run and slide. 
My brother John was forced to go, 

And he lies by her side." 

" How many are you, then," said I, 

" If they two are in heaven ? " 
Quick was the little maid's reply : 

" Master, we are seven." 

" But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 

Their spirits are in heaven ! " — 
'Twas throwing words away ; for still 
The little maid would have her will. 

And said : " Nay, we are seven ! " 

William Wordsworth. 



%xmi, in \\\t ©raj)£2«^^- 

She bounded o'er the graves, 

With a buoyant step of mirth ; 
She bounded o'er the graves, 
"Where the weeping willow waves. 
Like a creature not of earth. 

Her hair was blown aside, 

And her eyes wei-e glittering bright ; 
Her hair was blown aside, 
And her little hands spread wide, 

With an innocent delight. 

She spelt the lettered word 

That registers the dead : 
She spelt the lettered word. 
And her busy thoughts were stirred 

With pleasure as she read. 



She stopped and culled a leaf 

Left fluttering on a rose ; 
She stopped and culled a leaf, 
Sweet monument of grief, 

That in our churchyard grows. 

She culled it with a smile — 
'Twas near her sister's mound : 

She culled it with a smile, 

And played with it awhile. 
Then scattered it around. 

I did not chill her heart. 

Nor turn its gush to tears ; 
I did not chill her heart. 
Oh, bitter drops will start 

Full soon in coming years. 

Caroline Gilman. 



Sallab of \\\t Qtcntpcst. 

We were crowded in the cabin. 
Not a soul would dare to sleep, — 

It was midnight on the waters. 
And a storm was on the deep. 

'Tis a fearful thing in Winter 

To be shattered by the blast. 
And to hear the rattling trumpet 

Thunder : " Cut away the mast 1 " 

So we shuddered there in silence. 
For the stoutest held his breath, 

While the hungry sea was roaring. 
And the breakers talked with Death. 

As thus we sat in darkness. 
Each one busy in his prayers, 

" We are lost ! " the captain shoiited 
As he staggered down the stairs. 

But his little daughter whispered, 

As she took his icy hand : 
" Is n't God upon the ocean 

Just the same as on the land % " 

Then we kissed the little maiden, 
And we spoke in better cheer. 

And we anchored safe in harbor 
When the morn was shining clear. 

James T. Fields. 



LITTLE BELL. 



147 



iLinle Sell. 

He prayeth well who lovetli well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

The Ancient Mariner. 

Piped the blackbird on the beech wood spray.: 
" Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, 

What's" your name?" quoth he — 
" What's your name ? Oh stop and straight un- 
fold. 
Pretty maid with showery curls of gold," — 

" Little Bell," said she. 

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks — 
Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks — 

" Bonny bird," quoth she, 
" Sing me your best song before I go." 
" Here's the very finest song I know, 

Little Bell," said he. 

And the blackbird piped ; you never heard 
Half so gay a song from any bird — 

Full of quips and wiles. 
Now so round and rich, now soft and slow. 
AH for love of that sweet face below, 

Dimpled o'er with smiles. 

And the while the bonny bird did pour 
His full heart out freely o'er and o'er 

'Neath the morning skies. 
In the little childish heart below 
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, 
And shine forth in happy overflow 

From the blue, bright eyes. 

Down the dell she tripped and through the glade. 
Peeped the squii-rel from the hazel shade. 

And from out the tree 
Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear, — 
While bold blackbird piped that all might hear — 

" Little Bell," piped he. 

Little Bell sat down amid the fern — 

" Squirrel, squirrel, to yoiu- task retm-n — 

Bring me nuts," quoth she. 
Up, away the frisky squirrel hies — 
Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes — 

And adown the tree. 



Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, 
In the little lap dropped one by one — 
Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun ! 
" Happy Bell," pipes he. 

Little Bell looked up and down the glade — 
" Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid, 

Come and share with me ! " 
Down came squirrel eager for his fare — 
Down came bonny blackbird I declare ; 
Little Bell gave each his honest share — 

Ah the merry three ! 
And the while these frolic playmates twain 
Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 

'Neath the morning skies. 
In the little childish heart below 
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow. 
And shine out in happy overflow 

From her blue, bright eyes. 

By her snow-white cot at close of day. 

Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray — 

Very calm and clear 
Rose the praying voice to where, unseen. 
In blue heaven, an angel shape serene 

Paused awhile to hear — 
" What good child is this," the angel said, 
" That, with happy heart, beside her bed 

Prays so lovingly I " 
Low and soft, oh ! very low and soft, 
Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft, 

" BeU, dear Bell ! " crooned he. 

" Wliom God's creatures love," the angel fair 
Murmured, " God doth bless with angels' care ; 

ChUd, thy bed shall be 
Folded safe from harm — Love deep and kind 
Shall watch around and leave good gifts be- 
hind, 

Little Bell, for thee ! " 

Thomas Westwood. 



^\)t Cittle Black JBoQ. 

My mother bore me in the southern wUd, 
And I am black ; but, oh, my soul is white ! 

White as an angel is the English child, 
But I am black, as if bereaved of light. 



148 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



My mother taught me underneath a tree ; 

And, sitting down before the heat of day, 
She took me on her lap, and kissed me, 

And, pointing to the east, began to say : 

" Look on the rising sun ; there God does live, 
And gives his light, and gives his heat away ; 

And flowers, and trees, and beasts, and men receive 
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday. 

" And we are put on earth a little space, 
That we may learn to bear the beams of love. 

And these black bodies and this sunburnt face 
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 

" For when our souls have learned the heat to bear, 
The clouds will vanish ; we shall hear his voice. 

Saying : ' Come from the grove, my love and care, 
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.' " 

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me, 
And thus I say to little English boy : 

When I from black, and he from white cloud free, 
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy, 

I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear 
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee ; 

And then I'll stand and stroke his sUver hair. 
And be like him, and he will then love me. 

Willi Ail Blake. 



a ari)ilir liraging. 

Fold thy little hands in prayer, 

Bow down at thy mother's knee. 
Now thy sunny face is fair, 
Shining through thine auburn hair ; 

Thine eyes are passion-free ; 
And pleasant thoughts, like garlands, bind thee 
Unto thy home, yet grief may find thee — 
Then pray, child, pray ! 

Now thy young heart, like a bird. 

Warbles in its summer nest ; 
No evil thought, no unkind word. 
No chilling autumn winds have stirred 

The beauty of thy rest ; 
But winter hastens, and decay 
Shall waste thy verdant home away — 
Then pray, child, pray ! 



Thy bosom is a house of glee, 

With gladness harping at the door ; 
While ever, with a joyous shout, 
Hope, the May queen, dances out, 

Her lips with music running o'er ; 
But Time those strings of joy will sever, 
And hope will not dance on for ever — 
Then pray, chUd, pray I 

Now, thy mother's arm is spread 
Beneath thy pillow in the night ; 

And loving feet creep round thy bed, 

And o'er thy quiet face is shed 
The taper's darkened light ; 

But that fond arm will pass away, 

By thee no more those feet wQl stay — 
Then pray, child, pray ! 

EOBEKT ArIS WiLLMOTT. 



Cues. 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A maid whom there were none to praise, 

And very few to love : 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye ! 
Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and, oh ! 

The difference to me ! 

Three years she grew in sun and shower ; 
Then Nature said : " A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown ; 
This child I to myself will take ; 
She shall be mine, and I wiU make 

A lady of my own. 

" Myself will to my darling be 
Both law and impulse ; and with me 

The girl, in rock and plain. 
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
Shall feel an overseeing power, 

To kindle or restrain. 



TEE OPEN WINDOW. 149 


" She shall be sportive as the fawn 


Virtue it could not know, 


That wild with glee across the lawn 


Nor vice, nor joy, nor woe. 


Or up the mountain springs ; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm 




The blest angelic legion. 
Greeted its birth above. 


Of mute insensate things. 


And came, with looks of love. 
From heaven's enchanting region ; 


" The floating clouds their state shall lend 


Bending their winged way 


To her ; for her the willow bend : 


To where the infant lay. 


Nor shall she fail to see, 




Even in the motions of the storm, 


They spread their pinions o'er it, — 




That little pearl which shone 
With lustre all its own, — 


Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 


By silent sympathy. 


And then on high they bore it, 


" The stars of midnight shall be dear 


Where glory has its birth ; — 


To her ; and she shall lean her ear 


But left the shell on earth. 


In many a secret place 


Dirk Smits. (Dutch.) 


Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 


Translation of H. S. Van Dtk. 


And beauty born of murmuring sound 




Shall pass into her face. 






^\\t ©pen toinbotD. 


" And vital feelings of delight 




Shall rear her form to stately height. 


The old house by the lindens 


Her virgin bosom swell ; 


Stood silent in the shade. 


Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 


And on the gravelled pathway 


While she and I together live 


The light and shadow played. 


Here in this happy dell." 


I saw the nursery windows 


Thus Nature spake. — The work was done — 


Wide open to the air. 


How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 


But the faces of the children, 


She died, and left to me 


They were no longer there. 


This heath, this calm, and quiet scene ; 


The large Newfoundland house-dog 


The memory of what has been, 


Was standing by the door ; 


And never more will be. 


He looked for his little playmates, 


WrLLiAM Wordsworth. 


Who would return no more. 




They walked not under the lindens. 




They played not in the hall ; 


®n X\\t iDefltl) of an Infant. 


But shadow, and silence, and sadness 




Were hanging over all. 


A HOST of angels flying. 


Through cloudless skies impelled, 


The birds sang in the branches. 


Upon the earth beheld 


With sweet familiar tone ; 


A pearl of beauty lying, 


But the voices of the children 


Worthy to glitter bright 


Will be heard in dreams alone ! 


In heaven's vast hall of light. 






And the boy that walked beside me, 


They saw, with glances tender, 


He could not understand 


An infant newly bom. 


Why closer in mine, ah ! closer, 


O'er whom life's earliest morn 


I pressed his warm, soft hand ! 


Just east its opening splendor ; 


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



150 



POJEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



Saba's 01)ocs. 

Oh those little, those little blue shoes I 
Those shoes that no little feet use. 

Oh the price were high 

That those shoes would buy, 
Those little blue unused shoes ! 

For they hold the small shape of feet 
That no more their mother's eyes meet, 

That by God's good will, 

Years since, grew still. 
And ceased from their totter so sweet. 

And oh, since that baby slept, 

So hushed, how the mother has kept, 

"With a tearful pleasure, 

That little dear treasure. 
And o'er them thought and wept ! 

For they mind her for evermore 
Of a patter along the floor ; 

And blue eyes she sees 

Look up from her knees 
With the look that in life they wore. 

As they lie before her there. 
There babbles from chair to chair 

A little sweet face 

That's a gleam in the place, 
With its little gold curls of hair. 

Then oh, wonder not that her heart 
From all else would rather part 

Than those tiny blue shoes 

That no little feet use. 
And whose sight makes such fond tears start ! 
WiIlLiam Cox Bennett. 



01)c €atnc onb tOent. 

As a twig trembles, which a bird 
Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, 

So is my memory thrilled and stirred ; — 
I only know she came and went. * 

As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, 
The blue dome's measureless content, 

So my soul held that moment's heaven ; - 
I only know she came and went. 



As, at one bound, our swift Spring heaps 
The orchards full of bloom and scent, 

So clove her May my wintry sleeps; — 
I only know she came and went. 

An angel stood and met my gaze, 

Through the low doorway of my tent ; 
The tent is struck, the vision stays; — 
I only know she came and went. 

Oh, when the room grows slowly dim. 
And when the oil is nearly spent, 

One gush of light these eyes will brim. 
Only to think she came and went. 

James Russell Lo^vELL. 



STIje ittorning-^lorg. 

We wreathed about our darling's head 

The morning-glory bright ; 
Her little face looked out beneath, 

So full of life and light, 
So lit as with a sunrise, 

That we could only say, 
" She is the morning-glory true, 

And her poor types are they." 

So always from that happy time 

We called her by their name, 
And very fitting did it seem — 

For, sure as morning came. 
Behind her cradle bars she smiled 

To catch the first faint raj% 
As from the trellis smiles the flower 

And opens to the day. 

But not so beautiful they rear 

Their airy cups of blue, 
As turned her sweet eyes to the light, 

Brimmed with sleep's tender dew : 
And not so close their tendrils fine 

Eound their supports are thrown. 
As those dear arms whose outstretched plea 

Clasped all hearts to her own. 

We used to think how she had come. 

Even as comes the flower, 
The last and perfect added gift 

To crown Love's morning hour ; 



A3I0NG THE BEAUTIFUL PICTURES. 151 


And how in her was imaged forth 


Not for the vines on the upland, 


The love we could not say, 


Where the bright red berries rest ; 


As on the little dewdrops round 


Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip. 


Shines back the heart of day. 


It seemeth to me the best. 


"We never could have thought, God, 


I once had a little brother 


That she must wither up. 


With eyes that were dark and deep ; 


Almost before a day was flown, 


In the lap of that old dim forest 


Like the morning-glory's cup ; 


He lieth in peace asleep ; 


We never thought to see her droop 


Light as the down of the thistle, 


Her fair and noble head. 


Free as the winds that blow, 


TlU she lay stretched before our eyes, 


We roved there the beautiful summers, 


Wilted, and cold, and dead ! 


The summers of long ago ; 




But his feet on the hills grew weary, 


The morning-glory's blossoming 
WUl soon be coming round — 


And one of the autumn eves 
I made for my little brother 


We see the rows of heart-shaped leaves 


A bed of the yeUow leaves. 


Upspringing from the ground ; 


Sweetly his pale arms folded 


The tender things the winter killed 


My neck in a meek embrace. 


Renew again their birth. 


As the light of immortal beauty 


But the glory of our morning 


Silently covered his face ; 


Has passed away from earth. 


And when the arrows of sunset 




Lodged in the tree -tops bright, 


Earth ! in vain our aching eyes 


He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 


Stretch over thy green plain ! 


Asleep by the gates of light. 


Too harsh thy dews, too gross thiije air. 


. Therefore, of all the pictures 


Her spirit to sustain ; 


That hang on Memory's wall, 


But up in groves of Paradise 


The one of the dim old forest 


FuU surely we shall see 


Seemeth the best of all. 


Our morning-glory beautiful 


Alice Cakt. 


Twine round our dear Lord's knee. 




Maeia White Lowell. 






®l)e ^\\xu Sons. 




I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old. 


^m0ng i\\z Beautiful |)ictures. 


With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of 
gentle mould. 


Among the beautiful pictures 


They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways 


That hang on Memory's wall, 


appears. 


Is one of a dim old forest. 


That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond 


That seemeth best of all. 


his childish years. 


Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 


I cannot say how this may be ; I know his face is 


Dark with the mistletoe ; 


fair — 


Not for the violets golden 


And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and 


That sprinkle the vale below ; 


serious air ; 


Not for the milk-white lilies 


I know his heart is kind and fond ; I know he 


That lean from the fragrant ledge. 


loveth me ; 


Coquetting all day with the sunbeams. 


But loveth yet his mother more with gratefiil fer- 


And stealing their golden edge ; 


vency. 



152 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



But that which others most admire, is the thought 

which fills his mind, 
The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere 

doth find. 
Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we to- 
gether walk ; 
He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as 

children talk. 
Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on 

bat or ball. 
But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly 

mimics all. 
His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes per- 

plext 
With thoughts about this world of ours, and 

thoughts about the next. 
He kneels at his dear mother's knee ; she teacheth 

him to pray ; 
And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the 

words which he will say. 
Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's 

years like me, 
A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be ; 
And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his 

thoughtful brow, 
I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose 

him now. 

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; 

I'll not declare how bright and fair his little feat- 
ures be. 

How silver sweet those tones of his when he prat- 
tles on my knee ; 

I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his broth- 
er's, keen, 

Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his 
hath ever been ; 

But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and 
tender feeling ; 

And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths 
of love revealing. 

When he walks with me, the country folk, who 
pass us in the street. 

Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so 
mild and sweet. 

A playfellow is he to all ; and yet, with cheerful 
tone. 

Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport 
alone. 



His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home 

and hearth, 
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our 

mirth. 
Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his 

heart may prove 
As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for 

earthly love ; 
And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes 

must dim, 
God comfort us for all the love which we shall 

lose in him. 

I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot 

tell. 
For they reckon not by years and months where he 

is gone to dwell. 
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles 

were given ; 
And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went to 

live in Heaven. 
1 cannot tell what form is his, what looks he wear- 

eth now. 
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining 

seraph brow. 
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss 

which he doth feel, 
Are numbered with the secret things which God 

will not reveal. 
But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is 

now at rest. 
Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's 

loving breast. 
I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of 

flesh. 
But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy 

for ever fresh. 
I know the angels fold him close beneath their 

glittering wings, 
And soothe him with a song that breathes of 

Heaven's divinest things. 
I know that we shall meet our babe, (his mother 

dear and I,) 
Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from 

every eye. 
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can 

never cease ; 
Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is 

certain peace. 



THRENODY. 153 


It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from 


I had the right, few days ago. 


bliss may sever ; 


Thy steps to watch, thy place to know ; 


But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours 


How have I forfeited the right ? 


for ever. 


Hast thou forgot me in a new delight ? 


When we think of what our darling is, and what 


I hearken for thy household cheer. 


we still must be — 


eloquent child ! 


When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and 


Whose voice, an equal messenger, 


this world's misery — 


Conveyed thy meaning mild. 


When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel 


What though the pains and joys 


this grief and pain — 


Whereof it spoke were toys 


Oh ! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him 


Fitting his age and ken, 


here again, John Moui-teie. 


Yet fau-est dames and bearded men, 




Who heard the sweet request. 




So gentle, wise, and grave. 


®l}rcnob2. 


Bended with joy to his behest. 


And let the world's affairs go by. 


The South-wind brings 


Awhile to share his cordial game, 


Life, sunshine, and desire, 


Or mend his wicker wagon-frame, 


And on every mount and meadow 


Still plotting how their hungry ear 


Breathes aromatic fire ; 


That winsome voice again might hear, 


But over the dead he has no power ; 


For his lips could well pronounce 


The lost, the lost, he cannot restore ; 


Words that were persuasions. 


And, looking over the hUls, I mourn 




The darling who shall not return. 


Gentlest guardians marked serene 


His early hope, his liberal mien ; 


I see my empty house ; 


Took counsel from his guiding eyes 


I see my" trees repair their boughs ; 


To make this wisdom earthly wise. 


And he, the wondrous child, 


Ah, vainly do these eyes recall 


Whose silver warble wild 


The school-march, each day's festival, 


Outvalued every pulsing sound 


When every morn my bosom glowed 


Within the air's cerulean round — 


To watch the convoy on the road ; 


The hyacinthine boy, for whom 


The babe in willow wagon closed, 


Morn well might break and April bloom — 


With rolling eyes and face composed ; 


The gracious boy, who did adorn 


With children forward and behind, 


The world whereinto he was born. 


Like Cupids studiously inclined ; 


And by his countenance repay 


And he the chieftain paced beside, 


The favor of the loving Day — 


The centre of the troop allied. 


Has disappeared from the Day's eye ; 


With sunny face of sweet repose. 


Far and wide she cannot iind him ; 


To guard the babe from fancied foes. 


My hopes pursue, they cannot bind him. 


The little captain innocent 


Eeturned this day, the South-wind searches. 


Took the eye with him as he went ; 


And finds young pines and budding birches ; 


Each village senior paused to scan 


But finds not the budding man ; 


And speak the lovely caravan. 


Nature, who lost him, cannot remake him ; 


From the window I look out 


Fate let him fall, Fate can't retake him ; 


To mark thy beautiful parade, 


Nature, Fate, Men, him seek in vain. 


Stately marching in cap and coat 




To some time by fairies played ; 


And whither now, my truant wise and sweet. 


A music, heard by thee alone. 


Oh, whither tend thy feet ? 
1 


To works as noble led thee on. 



154 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



Now Love, and Pride, alas ! in vain. 

Up and down their glances strain. 

The painted sled stands where it stood ; 

The kennel by the corded wood ; 

The gathered sticks to stanch the wall 

Of the snow-tower, when snow should fall ; 

The ominous hole he dug in the sand. 

And childhood's castles built or planned ; 

His daily haunts I well discern — 

The poultry-yard, the shed, the barn — 

And every inch of garden ground 

Paced by the blessed feet around, 

From the roadside to the brook 

Whereinto he loved to look. 

Step the meek birds where erst they ranged ; 

The wintry garden lies unchanged : 

The brook into the stream runs on ; 

But the deep-eyed boy is gone. 

On that shaded day. 

Dark with more clouds than tempests are, 

When thou didst yield thy innocent breath 

In birdlike hearings unto death, 

Night came, and Nature had not thee ; 

I said : " We are mates in misery." 

The morrow dawned with needless glow ; 

Each snowbird chirped, each fowl must crow ; 

Each tramper started ; but the feet 

Of the most beautiful and sweet 

Of human youth had left the hill 

And garden — they were bound and still. 

There's not a sparrow or a wren, 

There's not a blade of Autumn grain, 

Which the four seasons do not tend, 

And tides of life and increase lend ; 

And every chick of every bird. 

And weed and rock-moss is preferred. 

Oh, ostrich-like f orgetfulness ! 

Oh loss of larger in the less ! 

Was there no star that could be sent, 

No watcher in the firmament. 

No angel from the countless host 

That loiters round the crystal coast. 

Could stoop to heal that only child, 

Nature's sweet marvel undefiled. 

And keep the blossom of the earth. 

Which all her harvests were not worth? 

Not mine — I never called thee mine, 

But Nature's heir — if I repine, 



And seeing rashly torn and moved 

Not what I made, but what I loved, 

Grew early old with grief that thou 

Must to the wastes of Nature go — 

'Tis because a general hope 

Was quenched, and aU must doubt and grope. 

For flattering planets seemed to say 

This child should ills of ages stay, 

By wondrous tongue, and guided pen, 

Bring the flown Muses back to men. 

Perchance not he, but Nature, ailed ; 

The world and not the infant failed. 

It was not ripe yet to sustain 

A genius of so fine a strain. 

Who gazed upon the sun and moon 

As if he came unto his own ; 

And, pregnant with his grander thought, 

Brought the old order into doubt. 

His beauty once their beauty tried ; 
They could not feed him, and he died. 
And wandered backward as in scorn, 
To wait an agon to be born. 
Ill day which made this beauty waste, 
Plight broken, this high face defaced ! 
Some went and came about the dead ; 
And some in books of solace read ; 
Some to their friends the tidings say ; 
Some went to write, some went to pray ; 
One tarried here, there hurried one ; 
But their heart abode with none. 
Covetous Death bereaved us all. 
To aggrandize one funeral. 
The eager fate which carried thee 
Took the largest part of me. 
For this losing is true dying ; 
This is lordly man's down-lying. 
This his slow but sure reclining, 
Star by star his world resigning. 

child of Paradise, 

Boy who made dear his father's home. 

In whose deep eyes 

Men read the welfare of the times to come, 

1 am too much bereft. 

The world dishonored thou hast left. 
Oh, truth's and nature's costly lie ! 
Oh, trusted broken prophecy ! 
Oh, richest fortune sourly crossed ! 
Born for the future, to the future lost ! 



THRENODY. 155 


The deep Heart answered : " Weepest thou ? 


And thoughtest thou such guest 


Worthier cause for passion wild 


Would in thy hall take up his rest ? 


If I had not taken the child. 


Would rushing life forget her laws, 


And deemest thou as those who pore, 


Pate's glowing revolution pause ? 


With aged eyes, short way before — 


High omens ask diviner guess. 


Think'st Beauty vanished from the coast 


Not to be conned to tediousness. 


Of matter, and thy darling lost 1 


And know my higher gifts unbind 


Taught he not thee — the man of eld, 


The zone that girds the incarnate mind. 


Whose eyes within his eyes beheld 


When the scanty shores are full 


Heaven's numerous hierarchy span 


With Thought's perilous, whirling pool ; 


The mystic gulf from God to man ? 


When frail Nature can no more. 


To be alone wilt thou begin 


Then the Spirit strikes the hour : 


When worlds of lovers hem thee in ? 


My servant Death, with solving rite. 


To-morrow when the masks shall fall 


Pours finite into infinite. 


That dizen Nature's carnival. 




The pure shall see by their own will, 


" Wilt thou freeze Love's tidal flow. 


Which overflowing Love shall fill, 


Whose streams through Nature circling go 1 


'Tis not within the force of Fate 


Nail the wOd star to its track 


The fate-conjoined to separate. 


On the half-climbed zodiac % 


But thou, my votary, weepest thou ? 


Light is light which radiates ; 


I gave thee sight — where is it now ? 


Blood is blood which circulates ; 


I taught thy heart beyond the reach 


Life is life which generates ; 


Of ritual, bible, or of speech ; 


And many-seeming life is one — 


Wrote in thy mind's transparent table. 


Wilt thou transfix and make it none ? 


As far as the incommunicable ; 


Its onward force too starkly pent 


Taught thee each private sign to raise. 


In figure, bone, and lineament ? 


Lit by the super-solar blaze. 


Wilt thou, uncalled, interrogate, - 


Past utterance, and past belief. 


Talker ! the unreplying Fate ? 


And past the blasphemy of grief. 


Nor see the genius of the whole 


The mysteries of Nature's heart ; 


Ascendant in the private soul, 


And though no muse can these impart. 


Beckon it when to go and come, 


Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast, 


Self -announced its hour of doom ? 


And all is clear from east to west. 


Fair the soul's recess and shrine. 




Magic-buUt to last a season ; 


" I came to thee as to a friend ; 


Masterpiece of love benign ; 


Dearest, to thee I did not send 


Fairer than expansive reason. 


Tutors, but a joyful eye. 


Whose omen 'tis, and sign. 


Innocence that matched the sky. 


Wilt thou not ope thy heart to know 


Lovely locks, a form of wonder, 


What rainbows teach, and sunsets show ? 


Laughter rich as woodland thunder. 


Verdict which accumulates 


That thou might'st entertain apart 


From lengthening scroll of human fates. 


The richest flowering of all art ; 


Voice of earth to earth returned, 


And, as the great all-loving Day 


Prayers of saints that inly burned — 


Through smallest chambers takes its way. 


Saying : Wliat is excellent, 


That thou might'st break thy daily bread 


As God lives, is permanent ; 


With prophet, saviour, and head ; 


Hearts are dust, hearts' loves remain ; 


That thou might'st cherish for thine own 


Hearts^ love will meet thee again. 


The riches of sweet Mary's son. 


Revere the Maker ; fetch thine eye 


Boy-rabbi, Israel's paragon. 


Up to his style, and manners of the sky. 



156 POEMS, OF 


GHILDHOOD. 


Not of adamant and gold 


Thy bright, brief day knew no decline, 


Built he heaven stark and cold ; 


'Twas cloudless joy ; 


No, but a nest of bending reeds, 


Sunrise and night alone were thine. 


Flowering grass, and scented weeds : 


Beloved boy ! 


Or like a traveller's fleeing tent, 


This moon beheld thee blythe and gay ; 


Or bow above the tempest bent ; 


. That found thee prostrate in decay ; 


Built of tears and sacred flames, 


And ere a third shone, clay was clay, 


And virtue reaching to its aims ; 


Casa Wappy ! 


Built of furtherance and pursuing, 




Not of spent deeds, but of doing. 


Gem of our hearth, our household pride, 


Silent rushes the swift Lord 


Earth's undefiled. 


Through ruined systems still restored, 


Could love have saved, thou hadst not died. 


Broadsowing, bleak and void to bless, 


Our dear, sweet child ! 


Plants with worlds the wilderness ; 


Humbly we bow to Pate's decree ; 


Waters with tears of ancient sorrow 


Yet had we hoped that Time should see 


Apples of Eden ripe to-morrow. 


Thee mourn for us, not us for thee. 


House and tenant go to ground. 


Casa Wappy ! 


Lost in God, in Godhead found." 




Ealph Waldo Emerson. 


Do what I may, go where I will. 




Thou meet'st my sight ; 




There dost thou glide before me still, 


Clasa iX)apjJ2-* 


A form of light ! 




I feel thy breath upon my cheek. 


And hast thou sought thy heavenly home. 


I see thee smile, I hear thee speak, 


Our fond, dear boy — 


Till oh ! my heart is like to break. 


The realms where sorrow dare not come. 


Casa Wappy! 


Where life is Joy ? 




Pure at thy death, as at thy birth. 


Methinks thou smil'st before me now. 


Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; 


With glance of stealth ; 


Even by its bliss we mete our dearth, 


The hair thrown back from thy full brow 


Casa Wappy ! 


In buoyant health ; 


Despair was in our last farewell, 


I see thine eyes' deep violet light — 


XT ' 

As closed thine eye ; 


Thy dimpled cheek carnationed bright — 


Tears of our anguish may not tell 


Thy clasping arms so round and white — 


When thou didst die ; 


Casa Wappy ! 


Words may not paint our grief for thee ; 




Sighs are but bubbles on the sea 


The nursery shows thy pictured wall, 


Of our unfathomed agony, 


Thy bat, thy bow. 


Casa Wappy ! 


Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball ; 




But where art thou ? 


Thou wert a vision of delight, 


A corner holds thine empty chair ; 


To bless lis given ; 


Thy playthings, idly scattered there, 


Beauty embodied to our sight. 


But speak to us of our despair. 


A type of heaven ! 


Casa Wappy ! 


So dear to us thou wert, thou art • 




Even less thine own self than a part 


Even to the last, thy every word, 


Of mine, and of thy mother's heart, 


To glad, to grieve. 


Casa Wappy ! 


Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird 


* The self -appellative of a beloved child. 


On Summer's eve ; 



CASA 


WAPPY. 157 


In outward beauty undecayed, 


Then be to us, dear, lost child ! 


Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade, 


With beam of love. 


And, like the rainbow, thou didst fade, 


A star, death's uncongenial wild 


Casa Wappy ! 


Smiling above ! 




Soon, soon, thy little feet have trod 


We mourn for thee when blind, blank night 


The skyward path, the seraph's road. 


The chamber fills ; 


That led thee back from man to God, 


We pine for thee when morn's first light 


Casa Wappy ! 


Reddens the hills ; 




The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea. 


Yet, 'tis, sweet balm to our despair, 


All — to the wall-flower and wild-pea — 


Fond, fairest boy. 


Are changed ; we saw the world through thee. 


That Heaven is God's, and thou art there. 


Casa Wappy ! 


With him in joy ; 




There past are death and all its woes ; 


And though, perchance, a smile may gleam 


There beauty's stream for ever flows ; 


Of casual mirth. 


And pleasure's day no sunset knows, 


It doth not own, whate'er may seem, 


Casa Wappy ! 


An inward birth ; 




We miss thy small step on the stair ; 


Farewell then, for a while, farewell, 


We miss thee at thine evening prayer : 


Pride of my heart ! 


All day we miss thee, everywhere, 


It cannot be that long we dwell. 


Casa Wappy ! 


Thus torn apart. 




Time's shadows like the shuttle flee ; 


Snows muffled earth when thou didst go. 


And, dark howe'er life's night may be, 


In life's spring-bloom, 


Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, 


Down to the appointed house below. 


Casa Wappy ! 


The silent tomb. 


But now the green leaves of the tree, 


David Macbeth Mora. 


The cuckoo, and " the busy bee," 




Return — but with them bring not thee. 




Casa Wappy ! 






itt2 ail)ilir. 


'Tis so ; but can it be — while flowers 




Revive again — 


I CANNOT make him dead ! 


Man's doom, in death that we and ours 


His fair sunshiny head 


For aye remain ? 


Is ever bounding round my study chair ; 


Oh ! can it be that, o'er the grave, 


Yet, when my eyes, now dim 


The grass renewed should yearly wave, 


With tears, I turn to him. 


Yet God forget our child to save ? 


The vision vanishes — he is not there ! 


Casa Wappy ! 






I walk my parlor floor, 


It cannot be ; for were it so 


And, through the open door. 


Thus man could die, 


I hear a footfall on the chamber stair ; 


Life were mockery, thought were woe, 


I'm stepping toward the hall 


And truth a lie ; 


To give the boy a call ; 


Heaven were a coinage of the brain, 


And then bethink me that — he is not there ! 


Religion frenzy, virtue vain, 




And all our hopes to meet again, 


I thread the crowded street ; 


Casa Wappy ! 


A satchelled lad I meet. 



158 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



With the same beaming eyes and colored hair ; 

And, as he's running by, 

Follow him with my eye, 
Scarcely believing that — he is not there ! 

I know his face is hid 

Under the coffin-lid ; 
Closed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead fair ; 

My hand that marble felt ; 

O'er it in prayer I knelt ; 
Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there ! 

I cannot make him dead ! 

When passing by the bed, 
So long watched over with parental care, 

My spirit and my eye 

Seek him inquiringly. 
Before the thought comes that — he is not there ! 

When, at the cool, gray break 

Of day, from sleep I wake, 
With my first breathing of the morning air 

My soul goes up, with joy, 

To Him who gave my boy ; 
Then comes the sad thought that — he is not there ! 

When at the day's calm close, 

Before we seek repose, 
I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer ; 

Whate'er I may be saying, 

I am in spirit praying 
For our boy's spirit, though — he is not there ! 

Not there ! — Where, then, is he ? 

The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that he used to wear. 

The grave, that now doth press 

Upon that cast-off dress. 
Is but his wardrobe locked ; — he is not there ! 

He lives ! — In all the past 

He lives ; nor, to the last. 
Of seeing him again will I despair ; 

In dreams I see him now ; 

And, on his angel brow, * 

I see it written, " Thou shalt see me there ! " 

Yes, we all live to God ! 
Father, thy chastening rod 



So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, • 

That, in the spirit-land. 

Meeting at thy right hand, 
'Twill be our heaven to find that — he is there ! 

John Pierpont. 



£ox Oil) or lie's Sake. 

The night is late, the house is stUl ; 

The angels of the hour fulfil 

Their tender ministries, and move 

From couch to couch, in cares of love. 

They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife, 

The happiest smile of Charlie's life, 

And lay on baby's lips a kiss. 

Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss ; 

And as they pass, they seem to make 

A strange, dim hymn, " For Charlie's sake." 

My listening heart takes up the strain, 
And gives it to the night again. 
Fitted with words of lowly praise. 
And patience learned of mournful days. 
And memories of the dead child's ways. 

His will be done. His will be done ! 
Who gave and took away my son. 
In " the far land " to shine and sing 
Before the Beautiful, the King, 
Who every day doth Christmas make, 
All starred and belled for Charlie's sake. 

For Charlie's sake I will arise ; 

I will anoint me where he lies, 

And change my raiment, and go In 

To the Lord's house, and leave my sin 

Without, and seat me at his board. 

Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord. 

For wherefore should I fast and weep. 

And sullen moods of mourning keep ? 

I cannot bring him back, nor he, 

For any calling, come to me. 

The bond the angel Death did sign, 

God sealed — for Charlie's sake, and mine. 

I'm very poor — this slender stone 
Marks all the narrow field I own ; 



FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE. 159 

1 


Yet, patient husbandman, I till, 




With faith and prayers, that precious hill, 


Coss anit (25ain. 


Sow it with penitential pains. 
And, hopeful, wait the latter rains ; 


When the baby died, we said, 
With a sudden, secret dread : 


Content if, after all, the spot 
Yield barely one forget-me-not — 
Whether or figs or thistles make 


" Death, be merciful, and pass ; — 


Leave the other ! " — but alas ! 


My crop, content for Charlie's sake. 


While we watched he waited there, 


I have no houses, builded well — 


One foot on the golden stair. 


Only that little lonesome cell, 


One hand beckoning at the gate. 


Where never romping playmates come, 


Till the home was desolate. 


Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb — 


Friends say, " It is better so, 
Clothed in innocence to go ; " 


An April burst of girls and boys, 


Their rainbow cloud of glooms and joys 
Bom with their songs, gone with their toys ; 


Say, to ease the parting pain. 
That " your loss is but their gain." 


Nor ever is its stillness stirred 


By purr of cat, or chii-p of bird. 


Ah ! the parents think of this ! 


Or mother's twilight legend, told 


But remember more the kiss 


Of Horner's pie, or Tiddler's gold. 


From the little rose-red lips ; 


Or fairy hobbling to the door, 


And the print of finger-tips 


Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor. 




To bless the good child's gracious eyes, 


Left upon the broken toy, 


The good child's wistful charities. 


Will remind them how the boy 


And crippled changeling's hunch to make 


And his sister charmed the days 


Dance on his crutch, for good child's sake. 


With their pretty, winsome ways. 


How is it with the child ? 'Tis well ; ' 


Only time can give relief 


Nor would I any miracle 


To the weary, lonesome grief : 


Might stir my sleeper's tranquil trance, 


God's sweet minister of pain 


Or plague his painless countenance : 


Then shall sing of loss and gain. 


I would not any seer might place 


Nora Perrt. 


His staff on my immortal's face, 




Or lip to lip, and eye to eye. 




Charm back his pale mortality. 

No, Shunammite ! I would not break 


S;i)e toiboro oni» (!rt)ilb. 


God's stillness. Let them weep who wake. 


Home they brought her warrior dead ; 




She nor swooned, nor uttered cry ; 


For Charlie's sake my lot is blest : 
No comfort like his mother's breast, 


All her maidens, watching, said. 




" She must weep or she will die." 


No praise like hers ; no charm expressed 


JT 


In faii-est forms hath half her zest. 


Then they praised him, soft and low, 


For Cliarlie's sake this bird's caressed 


Called him worthy to be loved, 


That death left lonely in the nest ; 


Truest friend and noblest foe ; 


For Charlie's sake my heart is dressed, 


Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 


As for its birthday, in its best ; 




For Charlie's sake we leave the rest 


Stole a maiden from her place. 


To Him who gave, and who did take. 


Lightly to the warrior stept, 


And saved us twice, for Charlie's sake. 


Took a face-cloth from the face. 


John Williamson Palmer. 


Yet she neither moved nor wept. 



160 POEMS OF 


CHILDHOOD. 


Rose a nurse of ninety years, 


How much better thou 'rt attended 


Set his child upon her knee ; 


Than the Son of God could be, 


Like summer tempest came her tears, 


When from heaven he descended. 


" Sweet my child, I live for thee." 


And became a chUd like thee ! 


Alpkbd Tennyson. 






Soft and easy is thy cradle : 




Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay. 


8ri)e Reconciliation. 


When his birth-place was a stable. 
And his softest bed was hay. 


As throiigh the land at eve we went, 




And plucked the ripened ears. 


See the kindly shepherds round him. 


"We fell out, my wife and I, — 


Telling wonders from the sky ! 


Oh, we fell out, I know not why, 


Where they sought him, there they found him, 


And kissed again with tears. 


With his Virgin-Mother by. 


For when we came where lies the child 


See the lovely babe a-dressing ! 


We lost in other years. 


Lovely infant, how he smiled ! 


There above the little grave. 


When he wept, the mother's blessing 


Oh, there above the little grave. 


Soothed and hushed the holy child. 


We kissed again with tears. 




Alfred Tennyson. 


Lo, he slumbers in his manger. 




Where the horned oxen fed ; 




Peace, my darling ! here 's no danger. 


^ Arabic Song. 


Here's no ox a-near thy bed ! 


Hush ! my dear, lie still and slumber ; 


May'st thou live to know and fear him, 


Holy angels guard thy bed ! 


Trust and love him all thy days : 


Heavenly blessings without number 


Then go dwell for ever near him ; 


Gently falling on thy head. 


See his face, and sing his praise. 


Sleep, my babe ; thy food and raiment, 


I could give thee thousand kisses, 


House and home, thy friends provide. 


Hoping what I most desire : 


All without thy care or payment. 


Not a mother's fondest wishes 


All thy wants are well supplied. 


Can to greater joys aspire. 


• 


Isaac Watts. 





PAET III. 




POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 




GiEB trenlich mir die Hande, 




Sei Bruder mir, und wende 




Den Blick, vor deinem Ende, 




Nicht wieder weg von mir. 




Ein Tempel wo wir knieen, 




Ein Ort wohin wir Ziehen, 




Ein Glnck fiir das wir glQhen, 




Ein Himmel mir und dir ! 




NOVAMS. 




Then let the chill sirocco blow, 


1 
The afflicted into joy, th' opprest 




And gird us round with hills of snow ; 


Into security and rest. 




Or else go whistle to the shore, 






And make the hollow mountains roar ; 


The worthy in disgrace shall find 
Favor return again more kind ; 




Whilst we together jovial sit 


And in restraint who stifled lie, 




Careless, and crowned with mirth and wit ; 


Shall taste the air of liberty. 




Where, though bleak winds confine us home, 






Our fancies round the world shall roam. 


The brave shall triumph in success ; 
The lovers shall have mistresses ; 




We'll think of all the friends we know. 


Poor unregarded virtue, praise ; 




And drink to all worth drinking to ; 


And the neglected poet, bays. 




When, having drunk all thine and mine, 






We rather shall want health than wine. 


Thus shall our healths do others good. 
Whilst we ourselves do all we would ; 




But where friends fail us, we'll supply 


For, freed from envy and from care. 




Our friendships with our charity ; 


What would we be, but what we are ? 




Men that remote in sorrows live, 






Shall by our lusty brimmers thrive. 


'Tis the plump grape's immortal juice 
That does this happiness produce. 




We'll drink the wanting into wealth, 


And will preserve us free together. 




And those that languish into health, 


Maugre mischance, or wind and weather. 

Chaeles Cotton. 


13 



POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP, 



^orlg irrienirsl)ip. 

The half -seen memories of childish days, 

When pains and pleasures lightly came and 
went; 

The sympathies of boyhood rashly spent 
In fearful wanderings through forbidden ways ; 
The vague but manly wish to tread the maze 

Of life to noble ends ; whereon intent, 

Asking to know for what man here is sent, 
The bravest heart must often pause, and gaze ; 
The firm resolve to seek the chosen end 

Of manhood's judgment, cautious and mature : 
Each of these viewless bonds binds friend to friend 

"With strength no selfish purpose can secure ; 
My happy lot is this, that all attend 

That friendship which first came, and which 
shall last endure. 

AUBRET De VeKE. 



toljen sijall roe ^))xze Mezt again? 

When shall we three meet again ? 
When shall we three meet again ? 
Oft shall glowing hope expire, 
Oft shall wearied love retire, 
Oft shall death and sorrow reign. 
Ere we three shall meet again. 



Though in distant lands we sigh, 
Parched beneath a hostile sky ; 
Though the deep between us rolls, 
Friendship shall unite our souls. 



Still in Fancy's rich domain 
Oft shall we three meet again. 

When the dreams of life are fled, 
When its wasted lamps are dead ; 
When in cold oblivion's shade. 
Beauty, power, and fame are laid ; 
Where immortal spirits reign. 
There shall we three meet again. 

Anonymous. 



Sonnets. 

When I do count the clock that tells the time. 

And see the brave day sunk in hideous night ; 
When I behold the violet past prime, 

And sable curls all silvered o'er with white ; 
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves. 

Which erst from heat did canopy the herd. 
And Summer's green all girded up in sheaves. 

Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard ; 
Then, of thy beauty do I question make. 

That thou among the wastes of time must go. 
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake. 

And die as fast as they see others grow ; 
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence. 
Save breed, to brave him, when he takes thee hence. 



Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day 1 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate ; 

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 
And Summer's lease hath all too short a date. 



164 



POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 



Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines, 

And often is his gold complexion dimmed, 
And every fair from fair sometime declines, 

By chance, or nature's changing course, un- 
trimmed ; 
But thy eternal Summer shall not fade. 

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; 
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, 

When in eternal lines to time thou growest. 
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, 
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 



So is it not with me as with that Muse, 

Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse ; 
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use. 

And every fair with his fair doth rehearse ; 
Making a couplement of proud compare, 

With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich 
gems, 
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare 

That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. 
Oh let me, true in love, but truly write, 

And then believe me, my love is as fair 
As any mother's child, though not so bright 

As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air : 
Let them say more that like of hearsay well ; 
I will not praise, that purpose not to sell. 

Let those who are in favor with their stars, 

Of public honor and proud titles boast ; 
Whilst L whom fortune of such triumphs bars, 

Unlooked-for joy in that I honor most. 
Great princes' favorites their fair leaves spread 

But as the marigold at the sun's eye ; 
And in themselves their pride lies buried. 

For at a frown they in their glory die. 
The painful warrior famoused for fight, 

After a thousand victories once foiled, 
Is from the book of honor razed quite, 

And all the rest forgot for which he toiled. 
Then happy I, that love and am beloved. 
Where I may not remove nor be removed. 

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 

1 all alone beweep my outcast state, 
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries. 

And look upon myself, and curse my fate, 



Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 

Featured like him, like him with friends pos- 
sessed, 
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope. 

With what I most enjoy contented least ; 
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, 

Haply I think on thee, and then my state 
(Like to the lark at break of -day arising 

From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate. 
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, 
That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 

I summon up remembrance of things past, 
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, 

And with old woes new wail my dear time's 
waste. 
Then can I drown an eye, iinused to flow. 

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, 
And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe, 

And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight. 
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone. 

And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, 

Which I new pay, as if not paid before : 
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, 
All losses are restored, and sorrows end. 

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, 

Wliich I by lacking have supposed dead ; 
And there reigns love, and all love's loving parts, • 

And all those friends which I thought buried. 
How many a holy and obsequious tear 

Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye. 
As interest of the dead, which now appear 

But things removed, that hidden in thee lie ! 
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live. 

Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone. 
Who all their parts of me to thee did give ; 

That due of many now is thine alone : 
Their images I loved I view in thee, 
And thou (all they) hast all the all of me. 

Pull many a glorious morning have I seen 
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, 

Kissing with golden face the meadows green. 
Gilding pale streams with heavy alchemy ; 



SONNETS. 



165 



Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 

With ugly rack on his celestial face, 
And from the forlorn world his visage hide. 

Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace. 
Even so my sun one early morn did shine, 

"With all triumphant splendor on my brow ; 
But out, alack ! he was but one hour mine. 

The region cloud hath masked him from me 
now. 
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ; 
Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun 
staineth. 

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, 

And make me travel forth without my cloak, 
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way. 

Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke ? 
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, 

To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face. 
For no man well of such a salve can speak. 

That heals the wound, and cures not the dis- 
grace : 
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief — 

Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss : 
Th' offender's sorrow lends but weak relief 
- To him that bears the strong offence's cross. 
Ah, but those tears are pearl, which thy love sheds, 
And they are rich, and ransom all iU deeds. 



What is your substance, whereof are you made. 

That millions of strange shadows on you tend ? 
Since every one hath, every one, one shade. 

And you, but one, can every shadow lend. 
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit 

Is poorly imitated after you ; 
On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set. 

And you in Grecian tires are painted new : 
Speak of the spring, and foison of the year — 

The one doth shadow of your beauty show. 
The other as your bounty doth appear ; 

And you in every blessed shape we know. 
In all external grace you have some part ; 
But you like none, none you, for constant heart. 

Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem. 
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! 

The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
For that sweet odor which doth in it live. 



The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye 

As the perfumed tincture of the roses, 
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly 

When summer's breath their masked buds dis- 
closes ; 
But for their virtue only is their show. 

They live un wooed, and unrespected fade ; 
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so ; 

Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made : 
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, 
When that shall fade, by verse distils your truth. 

Not marble, not the gilded monuments 

Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme ; 
But you shall shine more bright in these contents 
Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish 
time. 
When wasteful war shall statues overturn. 

And broils root out the work of masonry. 
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall 
burn 
The living record of your memory. 
'Gainst death and all oblivious enmity 
Shall you pace forth : your praise shall still find 
room 
Even in the eyes of all posterity. 

That wear this world out to the ending doom. 
So, till the judgment that yourself arise, 
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. 

William Shakespeare. 



Jrom "JJn Memotiam." 

I ENVY not, in any moods. 
The captive void of noble rage. 
The linnet born within the cage. 

That never knew the summer woods. 

I envy not the beast that takes 
His license in the field of time, 
Unfettered by the sense of crime. 

To whom a conscience never wakes : 

Nor, what may count itself as blest. 
The heart that never plighted troth. 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth ; 

Nor any want-begotten rest. 



166 



POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 



I hold it true, whate'er befall, 
1 feel it when 1 sorrow most, 
'Tis better to have loved and lost 

Than never to have loved at all. 



With trembling fingers did we weave 
The holly round the Christmas hearth ; 
A rainy cloud possessed the earth, 

And sadly fell our Christmas eve. 

At our old pastimes in the hall 
We gambolled, making vain pretence 
Of gladness, with an awful sense 

Of one mute Shadow watching all. 

We paused ; the winds were in the beech ; 

We heard them sweep the winter land : 

And in a circle hand in hand 
Sat silent, looking each at each. 

Then echo-like our voices rang ; 

We sang, though every eye was dim — 
A merry song we sang with him 

Last year, impetuously we sang ; 

We ceased. A gentler feeling crept 

Upon us ; surely rest is meet : 

" They rest," we said, " their sleep is sweet.' 
And silence followed, and we wept. 

Our voices took a higher range ; 
Once more we sang : " They do not die, 
Nor lose their mortal sympathy. 

Nor change to us, although they change : 

" Rapt from the fickle and the frail, 
With gathered power, yet the same. 
Pierces the keen seraphic fiame 

From orb to orb, from veil to veil. 

" Rise, happy morn ! rise holy morn ! 

Draw forth the cheerful day from night ! 

Father ! touch the east, and light 
The light that shone when Hope was born." 



DosT thou look back on what hath been, 
As some divinely gifted man. 
Whose life in low estate began, 

And on a simple village green ? 



Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, 
And grasps the skirts of happy chance. 
And breasts the blows of circumstance, 

And grapples with his evil star ; 

Who makes by force his merit known. 
And lives to clutch the golden keys, 
To mould a mighty state's decrees, 

And shape the whisper of the throne ; 

And moving up from high to higher, 
Becomes on Fortune's frowning slope 
The pillar of a people's hope. 

The centre of a world's desire ; 

Yet feels, as in a pensive dream. 
When all his active powers are still, 
A distant dearness in the hill, 

A secret sweetness in the stream, 

The limit of his narrower fate, 
While yet beside its vocal springs 
He played at counsellors and kings 

With one that was his earliest mate ; 

Who ploughs with pain his native lea, 
And reaps the labor of his hands, 
Or in the furrow musing stands : 

" Does my old friend remember me ? " 



Witch-elms, that counterehange the floor 
Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright ; 
And thou, with all thy breadth and height 

Of foliage, towering sycamore ; 

How often, hither wandering down. 
My Arthur found your shadows fair, 
And shook to all the liberal air 

The dust and din and steam of town ! 

He brought an eye for all he saw. 
He mixed in all our simple sports ; 
They pleased him, fresh from brawling courts 

And dusky purlieus of the law. 

Oh joy to him, in this retreat, 

Immantled in ambrosial dark. 

To drink the cooler air, and mark 
The landscape winking through the heat. 



FROM "IN MEMORIAMr 167 


Oh sound to rout the brood of cares, 
The sweep of scythe in morning dew, 
The gust that round the garden flew. 

And tumbling half the mellowing pears ! 


On thee the loyal-hearted hung, 
The proud was half disarmed of pride ; 
Nor cared the serpent at thy side 

To flicker with his treble tongue. 


Oh bliss, when all in circle drawn 
About him, heart and ear were fed, 
To hear him, as he lay and read 

The Tuscan poets on the lawn ; 


The stern were mild when thou wert by ; 
The flippant put himself to school 
And heard thee ; and the brazen fool 

Was softened, and he knew not why ; 


Or in the all-golden afternoon 
A guest, or happy sister, sung. 
Or here she brought the harp, and flung 

A ballad to the brightening moon ! 


While I, thy dearest, sat apart. 
And felt thy triumph was as mine ; 
And loved them more, that they were thine 

The graceful tact, the Christian art ; 


Nor less it pleased, in livelier moods, 
Beyond the bounding hill to stray. 
And break the livelong summer day 

"With banquet in the distant woods ; 


Not mine the sweetness or the skill. 
But mine the love that will not tire. 
And, born of love, the vague desire 

That spurs an imitative will. 


Whereat we glanced from theme to theme, 
Discussed the books to love or hate. 
Or touched the changes of the state, 

Or threaded some Socratic dream. 


Dear friend, far ofE, my lost desire. 
So far, so near, in woe and weal ; 
Oh, loved the most when most I feel 

There is a lower and a higher ; 


But if I praised the busy town, 
He loved to rail against it still. 
For " ground in yonder social mill, 

We rub each other's angles down, 


Known and unknown, human, divine ! 
Sweet human hand and lips and eye. 
Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, 

Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine ! 


" And merge," he said, " in form and gloss 
The picturesque of man and man." 
We talked ; the stream beneath us ran, 

The wine-flask lying couched in moss. 


Strange friend, past, present, and to be, 
Loved deeplier, darklier understood ; 
Behold I dream a dream of good, 

And mingle all the world with thee. 


Or cooled within the glooming wave ; 
And last, returning from afar. 
Before the crimson-circled star 

Had fallen into her father's grave. 

And brushing ankle deep in flowers. 
We heard behind the woodbine veil 
The milk that bubbled in the pail. 

And buzzings of the honeyed hours. 


Thy voice is on the rolling air ; 

I hear thee where the waters run ; 

Thou standest in the rising sun, 
And in the setting thou art fair. 

What art thou, then ? I cannot guess ; 
But though I seem in star and flower 
To feel thee, some diffusive power, 

I do not therefore love thee less ; 


Thy converse drew us with delight. 
The men of rathe and riper years ; 
The feeble soul, a haunt of fears. 

Forgot his weakness in thy sight. 


My love involves the love before ; 

My love is vaster passion now ; 

Though mixed with God and nature thou, 
I seem to love thee more and more. 



168 



P0E3IS OF FRIENDSHIP. 



Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; 
I have thee still, and I rejoice, 
I prosper, circled with thy voice ; 

I shall not lose thee, though I die. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



Joffar. 

Jaffar, the Barmecide, the good vizier. 

The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer, 

Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust ; 

And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust 

Of what the good, and e'en the bad might say. 

Ordained that no man living from that day 

Should dare to speak his name on pain of death. 

All Araby and Persia held their breath ; 

All but the brave Mondeer : he, proud to show 
How far for love a grateful soul could go. 
And facing death for very scorn and grief 
(For his great heart wanted a great relief). 
Stood forth in Bagdad daily, in the square 
Where once had stood a happy house, and there 
Harangued the tremblers at the scymitar 
On all they owed to the divine Jaffar. 

" Bring me this man," the caliph cried ; the man 
Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began 
To bind his arms. " Welcome, brave cords," cried 

he. 
" From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me ; 
From wants, from shames, from loveless household 

fears ; 
Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears ; 
Restored me, loved me, put me on a par 
With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar ? " 

Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this 
The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss, 
Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate 
Might smile upon another half as great. 
He said : " Let worth grow frenzied if it will ; 
The caliph's judgment shall be master still. 
Go, and since gifts so move thee, take thi^ gem. 
The richest in the Tartar's diadem. 
And hold the giver as thou deemest fit ! " 
" Gifts ! " cried the friend ; he took, and hold- 
ing it 



High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star. 
Exclaimed, " This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar ! " 

Leigh Hitnt. 



^[\z Sixt of SDrift-toooIr. 

We sat within the farm-house old, 
Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, 

Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold. 
An easy entrance, night and day. 

Not far away we saw the port, 

The strange, old-fashioned, silent town. 
The light-house, the dismantled fort, 

The wooden houses, quaint and brown. 

We sat and talked until the night, 
Descending, filled the little room ; 

Our faces faded from the sight, 
Our voices only broke the gloom. 

We spake of many a vanished scene. 
Of what we once had thought and said, 

Of what had been, and might have been, 
And who was changed, and who was dead ; 

And all that fills the hearts of friepds. 
When first they feel, with secret pain. 

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends. 
And never can be one again ; 

The first slight swerving of the heart. 
That words are powerless to express, 

And leave it still unsaid in part, 
Or say it in too great excess. 

The very tones in which we spake 
Had something strange, I could but mark ; 

The leaves of memory seemed to make 
A mournful rustling in the dark. 

Oft died the words upon our lips, 

As suddenly, from out the fire 
Built of the wreck of stranded ships, 

The flames would leap and then expire. 

And, as their splendor flashed and failed, 
We thought of wrecks upon the main, 

Of ships dismasted, that were hailed, 
And sent no answer back again. 



QUA CURSUM VENTUS. 



169 



The windows, rattling in their frames, 

The ocean roaring up the beach, 
The gusty blast, the bickering flames, 

All mingled vaguely in our speech ; 

Until they made themselves a part 
Of fancies floating through the brain, — 

The long-lost ventures of the heart, 
That send no answers back again. 

Oh flames that glowed ! Oh hearts that yearned ! 

They were indeed too much akin ; 
The drift-wood fire without that burned. 

The thoughts that burned and glowed within. 
Henry Wadsworth Lokgpellow. 



®l)e |)assage. 



Many a year is in its grave. 
Since I crossed this restless wave ; 
And the evening, fair as ever, 
Shines on ruin, rock, and river. 

Then in this same boat beside 
Sat two comrades old and tried ; 
One with all a father's truth. 
One with all the fire of youth. 

One on earth in silence wrought. 
And his grave in silence sought ; 
But the younger, brighter form 
Passed in battle and in storm. 

So, whene'er I turn my eye 

Back upon the days gone by, 

Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me, 

Friends that closed their course before me. 

But what binds us, friend to friend, 
But that soul with soul can blend ? 
Soul-like were those hours of yore ; 
Let us walk in soul once more. 

Take, boatman, thrice thy fee. 

Take, I give it willingly ; 

For, invisible to thee, 

Spirits twain have crossed with me. 

Ltjdwig Uhland. (German.) 
Translation of Sarah Austin. 



^ixa Qtursum ibcntus. 

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side. 

Two towers of sail, at dawn of day 
Are scarce, long leagues apart, descried : 

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze. 
And all the darkling hours they plied ; 

Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side ; 

E'en so — but why the tale reveal 
Of those whom, year by year unchanged. 

Brief absence joined anew to feel. 
Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? 

At dead of night their sails were filled, 
And onward each rejoicing steered ; 

Ah, neither blame, for neither willed 
Or wist what first with dawn appeared. 

To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain. 
Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too ! 

Through winds and tides one compass guides - 
To that and your own selves be true. 

But blithe breeze ! and great seas. 
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, 

On your wide plain they join again. 
Together lead them home at last. 

One port, methought, alike they sought. 
One purpose hold where'er they fare ; 

bounding breeze, rushing seas. 
At last, at last, unite them there ! 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 



Ora;pe-CIottage at Sunset. 

We stood upon the ragged rocks, 
When the long day was nearly done ; 

The waves had ceased their suUen shocks. 
And lapped our feet with murmuring tone. 

And o'er the bay in streaming locks 
Blew the red tresses of the sun. 



170 



POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 



Along the West the golden bars 

Still to a deeper glory grew ; 
Above our heads the faint, few stars 

Looked out from the unfathomed blue ; 
And the fair city's clamorous jars 

Seemed melted in that evening hue. 

Oh sunset sky ! Oh purple tide ! 

Oh friends to friends that closer pressed ! 
Those glories have in darkness died, 

And ye have left my longing breast. 
I could not keep you by my side. 

Nor iix that radiance in the West. 

Upon those rocks the waves shall beat 
With the same low and murmuring strain ; 

Across those waves, with glancing feet. 
The sunset rays shall seek the main ; 

But when together shall we meet 
Upon that far-off shore again ? 

William Belcher Glazier. 



W:\t ®1I> Jontiliar £attQ. 

I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions. 
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school- 
days; 
AU, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing. 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cro- 
nies; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a love once, fairest among women ; 
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see 

her; 
AU, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; 
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly. 
Left him, to muse on the old famUiar faces. 

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my child- 
hood. 
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 



Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother. 
Why wert thou not born in my father's dwell- 
ing? 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces — 

How some they have died, and some they have left me. 
And some are taken from me ; all are departed, 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces ! 

Charles Lamb. 



Sto Cabg ^nne Hamilton. 

Too late I stayed — forgive the crime — 

Unheeded flew the hours : 
How noiseless falls the foot of time 

That only treads on flowers ! 

And who, with clear account, remarks 

The ebbings of his glass, 
When all its sands are diamond-sparks, 

That dazzle as they pass ? 

Ah ! who to sober measurement 
Time's happy swiftness brings. 

When birds of paradise have lent 
Their plumage to his wings ? 

William Robert Spencer. 



Stanzas to %xi%nBia. 

[byron to his sister.] 

Though the day of my destiny's over. 

And the star of my fate hath declined. 
Thy soft heart refused to discover 

The faults which so many could find ; 
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted. 

It shrunk not to share it with me. 
And the love which my spirit hath paiated 

It never hath found but in thee." 

Then when nature around me is smiling, 

The last smUe which answers to mine, 
I do not believe it beguiling. 

Because it reminds me of thine ; 
And when winds are at war with the ocean. 

As the breasts I believed in with me, 
If their bUlows excite an emotion. 

It is that they bear me from thee. 



A WINTER WISH. 171 


Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, 


We have been gay together ; 


And its fragments are sunk in the wave, 


We have laughed at little jests ; 


Though I feel that my soul is delivered 


For the fount of hope was gushing. 


To pain — it shall not be its slave. 


Warm and joyous, in our breasts. 


There is many a pang to pursue me : 


But laughter now hath fled thy lip, 


They may crush, but they shall not contemn — 


And sullen glooms thy brow ; 


They may torture, but shall not subdue me — 


We have been gay together — 


'Tis of thee that I think, not of them. 


Shall a light word part us now ? 


Though human, thou didst not deceive me, 


We have been sad together — 


Though woman, thou didst not forsake, 


We have wept, with bitter tears. 


Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, 


O'er the grass-grown graves where slumbered 


Though slandered, thou never couldst shake, 


The hopes of early years. 


Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me. 


The voices which are silent there 


Though parted, it was not to fly. 


Would bid thee clear thy brow ; 


Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, 


We have been sad together — 


Nor mute, that the world might belie. 


Oh ! what shall part us now ? 




Caeoline Norton. 


Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, 




Nor the war of the many with one ; 




If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 
'Twas folly not sooner to shun ; 


^ tointer tDisl), 


And if dearly that error hath cost me. 


Old wine to drink ! — 


And more than I once could foresee. 


Ay, give the slippery juice 


I have found that, whatever it lost me, 


That drippeth from the grape thrown loose 


It could not deprive me of thee. 


Within the tun ; 




Plucked from beneath the clifE 


Prom the wreck of the past which hath perished 


Of sunny-sided Teneriffe, 


Thus much I at least may recall, 


And ripened 'neath the blink 


It hath taught me that what I most cherished 


Of India's sun ! 


Deserved to be dearest of all. 


Peat whiskey hot, 


In the desert a fountain is springing, 


Tempered with well-boiled water ! 


In the wild waste there still is a tree, 


These make the long night shorter, — 


And a bird in the solitude singing. 


Forgetting not 


Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 


Good stout old English porter. 


LOBD Bteon. 






Old wood to burn ! — 




Ay, bring the hill-side beech 




From where the owlets meet and screech, 


toe IjatJC been JTriettbs toigetl}er. 


And ravens croak ; 


The crackling pine, and cedar sweet ; 


We have been friends together. 


Bring too a clump of fragrant peat, 


In sunshine and in shade ; 


Dug 'neath the fern ; 


Since first beneath the chestnut-trees 


The knotted oak, 


In infancy we played. 


A fagot too, perhap. 


But coldness dwells within thy heart, 


Whose bright flame, dancing, winking, 


A cloud is on thy brow ; 


Shall light us at our drinking ; 


We have been friends together — 


While the oozing sap 


Shall a light word part us now ? 


Shall make sweet music to our thinking. 



173 POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 


Old books to read ! — 


No danger fear 


Ay, bring those nodes of wit, 


While wine is near — 


The brazen-clasped, the vellum writ, 


We'll drown him if he stings us. 


Time-honored tomes ! 


Then wreathe the bowl 


The same my sire scanned before. 


With flowers of soul. 


The same my grandsire thumbed o'er, 


The brightest wit can find us ; 


The same his sire from college bore, 


We'll take a flight 


The well-earned meed 


Towards heaven to-night. 


Of Oxford's domes : 


And leave dull earth behind us ! 


Old Homer blind, 




Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by 


'Twas nectar fed 


Old Tully, Plautus, Terence lie ; 


Of old, 'tis said. 


^ Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie, 


Their Junos, Joves, Apollos ; 


Quaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ay ! 


And man may brew 


And Gerrase Markham's venerie — 


His nectar too ; 


Nor leave behind 


The rich receipt's as foUows: — 


The Holye Book by which we live and die. 


Take wine like this ; 




Let looks of bliss 


Old friends to talk! — 


Around it well be blended ; 


Ay, bring those chosen few, 


Then bring wit's beam 


The wise, the courtly, and the true, 


To warm the stream. 


So rarely found ; 


And there's your nectar, splendid ! 


Him for my wine, him for my stud. 


So wreathe the bowl 


Him for my easel, distich, bud 


With flowers of soul. 


In mountain walk ! 


The brightest wit can find us ; 


Bring Walter good : 


> We'll take a flight 


With soulful Fred ; and learned Will, 


Towards heaven to-night. 


And thee, my alter ego (dearer still 


And leave dull earth behind us ! 


For every mood). 




These add a bouquet to my wine ! 


Say, why did Time 


These add a sparkle to my pine ! 


His glass sublime 


If these I tine, 


Fill up with sands unsightly, 


Can books, or fire, or wine be good ? 


When wine he knew 




Runs brisker through. 


Robert Hincklet Messinger. 


O ' 




And sparkles far more brightly? 




Oh, lend it us. 




And, smiling thus. 




The glass in two we'd sever, 


to«atl)e ll)c jBotnl. 


Make pleasure glide 




In double tide. 


Wreathe the bowl 


And fill both ends for ever ! 


With flowers of soul. 


Then wreathe the bowl 


The brightest wit can find us ; 


With flowers of soul. 


We'll take a flight 


The brightest wit can flnd us ; 


Towards heaven to-night, 


We'll take a flight 


And leave dull earth behind us ! 


Towards heaven to-night. 


Should Love amid 


And leave dull earth behind us ! 


The wreaths be hid 


Thomas Moore. 


That Joy, the enchanter, brings us. 





FILL TEE BUMPER FAIR. 



173 



Sparkling anb Srigl)t- 

Sparkling and bright in liquid light, 
Does the wine our goblets gleam in ; 
With hue as red as the rosy bed 

Which a bee would choose to dream in. 
TJienfiU to-night, with hearts as light, 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, 
And break on the lips while meeting. 

Oh ! if Mirth might arrest the flight 
Of Time through Life's dominions, 
We here a while would now beguile 
The graybeard of his pinions, 
To drink to-'night, ivith hearts as light. 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, 
And break on the lips while meeting. 

But since Delight can't tempt the wight, 

Nor fond Regret delay him, 
Nor Love himself can hold the elf. 
Nor sober Friendship stay him. 
We'll drink to-night, with hearts as light. 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that swim on the beaker' ^ brim. 
And break on the lips while meeting. 

ChABLES FbNNO HorPMAN. 



Qri)ant:pagnc Bosfe. 

Lily on liquid roses floating — 

So floats yon foam o'er pink champagne. 
Fain would I join such pleasant boating. 

And prove that ruby main, 
And float away on wine ! 

Those seas are dangerous, graybeards swear. 
Whose sea-beach is the goblet's brim ; 

And true it is they drown old Care — 
But what care we for him, 
So we but float on wine ! 

And true it is they cross in pain, 
Who sober cross the Stygian ferry ; 

But only make our Styx champagne, 
And we shall cross right merry. 
Floating away in wine ! 



Old Charon's self shall make him mellow, 

Then gayly row his boat from shore ; 
While we, and every jovial fellow, 
Hear, unconcerned, the oar, 
That dips itself in wine ! 

John Kenton. 



iTili tl)c Sutnper fair. 

Fill the bumper fair ! 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of care 

Smooths away a wrinkle. 
Wit's electric flame 

Ne'er so swiftly passes 
As when through the frame 

It shoots from brimming glasses. 
Fill the bumper fair ; 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of care 

Smooths away a wrinkle. 

Sages can, they say. 

Grasp the lightning's pinions, 
And bring down its ray 

From the starred dominions : — 
So we, sages, sit. 

And, 'mid bumpers bright'ning. 
From the heaven of wit 

Draw down all its lightning. 

Wouldst thou know what first 

Made our souls inherit 
This ennobling thirst 

For wine's celestial spirit? 
It chanced upon that day. 

When, as bards inform us, 
Prometheus stole away 

The living fires that warm us : 

The careless youth, when up 

To Glory's fount aspiring, 
Took nor urn nor cup 

To hide the pilfered fire in. 
But oh his joy, when, round 

The halls of heaven spying. 
Among the stars, he found 

A bowl of Bacchus lying ! 



174 



POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 



Some drops were in that bowl, 

Remains of last night's pleasure, 
With which the sparks of soul 

Mixed their burning treasure. 
Hence the goblet's shower 

Hath such spells to win us ; 
Hence its mighty power 

O'er that flame within us. 
Fill the bumper fair ! 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the irow of care 

Smooths away a wrinkle. 

Thomas Moore. 



^nb 5otI) not a MtzXin^ like tl)is. 

And doth not a meeting like this make amends 

For all the long years I've been wand'ring away — 
To see thus around me my youth's early friends, 

As smiling and kind as in that happy day ? 
Though haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er 
mine. 

The snow-fall of Time may be stealing — what 
then? 
Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine, 

We'll wear the gay tinge of Youth's roses again. 

What softened remembrances come o'er the heart, 

In gazing on those we've been lost to so long ! 
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part. 
Still round them, like visions of yesterday, 
throng ; 
As letters some hand hath invisibly traced. 

When held to the flame will steal out on the 
sight. 
So many a feeling, that long seemed effaced. 
The warmth of a moment like this brings to 
light. 

And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide, 

To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew. 
Though oft we may see, looking down on the tide, 

The wreck of full many a hope shining through ; 
Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers 

That once made a garden of all the gay shore. 
Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours, 

And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once 
more. 



So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most, 

Is all we can have of the few we hold dear ; 
And oft even joy is unheeded and lost 

For want of some heart that could echo it, near. 
Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is 
gone, 

To meet in some world of more permanent 
bliss ; 
For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hast'ning on, 

Is all we enjoy of each other in this. 

But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart, 
The more we should welcome, and bless them the 
more ; 
They're ours, when we meet — they are lost when 
we part — 
Like birds that bring Summer, and fly when 'tis 
o'er. 
Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink, 
Let Sympathy pledge us, through pleasure, 
through pain, 
That, fast as a feeling but touches one link. 
Her magic shall send it direct through the chain. 

Thomas Moobe. 



^ora Stanbs tl)je (!$ia6s ^rounb? 

How stands the glass around? 
For shame ! ye take no care, my boys ; 

How stands the glass around ? 

Let mirth and wine abound. 

The trumpets sound ; 
The colors they are flying, boys. 

To fight, kill, or wound. 

May we still be found 
Content with our hard fare, my boys 

On the cold ground. 

Why, soldiers, why 
Should we be melancholy, boys? 

Why, soldiers, why. 

Whose business 'tis to die ? 

What, sighing ? fle ! 
Don't fear, drink on, be jolly, boys ! 

'Tis he, you, or I ! 

Cold, hot, wet or dry. 
We're always bound to follow, boys. 

And scorn to fly. 



FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR. 



175 



'Tis but in vain — 
I mean not to upbraid you, boys — 

'Tis but in vain 

For soldiers to complain : 

Should next campaign 
Send us to Him who made us, boys. 

We're free from pain ! 

But if we remain, 
A bottle and a kind landlady 

Cure all again. 

Anonymous. 



(STome, Senb Hounb X\\t toine. 

Come, send round the wine, and leave points of be- 
lief 
To simpleton sages and reasoning fools ; 
This moment's a flower too fair and too brief 
To be withered and stained by the dust of the 
schools. 
Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue. 
But while they are filled from the same bright 
bowl, 
The fool who would quarrel for difference of hue 
Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul. 

Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side. 

In the cause of mankind, if our creeds may agree 1 
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, 

If he kneel not before the same altar with me f 
From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly 

To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss ? 
No ! perish the hearts and the laws that try 

Truth, valor, or love, by a standard like this ! 

Thomas Mooke. 



®o QL\\omaB iHoorc. 

My boat is on the shore. 
And my bark is on the sea ; 

But, before I go, Tom Moore, 
Here's a double health to thee ! 

Here's a sigh for those that love me. 
And a smile for those who hate ; 

And, whatever sky's above me. 
Here's a heart for every fate. 



Though the ocean roar around me, , 

Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
Though a desert should surround me, 

It hath springs that may be won. 

Were't the last drop in the well. 

As I gasped upon the brink. 
Ere my fainting spirit fell 

'Tis to thee that 1 would drink. 

With that water, as this wine. 

The libation I would pour 
Should be — Peace with thine and mine. 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore ! 

Lord Bteon. 



£axtxaz\\\ but tol)cnei)cr ^o« iD^kotne 
X\\t four. 

Farewell ! but whenever you welcome the hour 
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your 

bower. 
Then think of [the friend who once welcomed it 

too. 
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with 

you. 
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain 
Of the few that have brightened his pathway of 

pain. 
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that 

threw 
Its enchantment around him while lingering with 

you! 

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up 
To the highest top-sparkle each heart and each 

cup. 
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, 
My soul, happy friends ! shall be with you that 

night — 
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your 

wiles. 
And return to me beaming all o'er with your 

smiles ; 
Too blest if it tells me that, 'mid the gay 

cheer. 
Some kind voice had murmured, " I wish he were 

here ! " 



176 



P0E3IS OF FRIENDSHIP. 



Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, 
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot de- 
stroy ! 
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, 
And bring back the features that joy used to wear. 
Long, long be my heart with such memories filled ! 
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled ; 
You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will. 
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 

Thomas Mooke. 



Slie ©allair of JSouillabaissc. 

A STREET there is in Paris famous. 

For which no rhyme our language yields, 
Rue Neuve des petits Champs its name is — 

The New Street of the Little Fields; 
And there's an inn, not rich and splendid, 

But still in comfortable case, 
The which in youth I oft attended, 

To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — 

A sort of soup, or broth, or brew. 
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes. 

That Greenwich never could outdo ; 
Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, saffern, 

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace ; 
All these you eat at Terre's tavern, 

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis ; 

And true philosophers, methinks. 
Who love all sorts of natural beauties, 

Should love good victuals and good drinks. 
And Cordelier or Benedictine 

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, 
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, 

Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. 

I wonder if the house still there is f 

Yes, here the lamp is as before ; 
The smiling, red-cheeked ecaillere is 

StUl opening oysters at the door. • 
Is Terre still alive and able f 

I recollect his droll grimace ; 
He'd come and smile before your table. 

And hoped you liked your Bouillabaisse. 



We enter ; nothing's changed or older. 

" How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray ? " 
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder ; 

" Monsieur is dead this many a day." 
" It is the lot of saint and sinner. 

So honest Terre's run his race ? " 
" What will Monsieur require for dinner?" 

" Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse % " 

" Oh, oui. Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer ; 

" Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ? " 
" Tell me a good one." " That I can, sir ; 

The Chambertin with yellow seal." 
" So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in 

My old accustomed corner-place ; 
" He's done with feasting and with drinking. 

With Burgundy and BouQlabaisse." 

My old accustomed corner here is, 

The table still is in the nook ; 
Ah ! vanished many a busy year is. 

This well-known chair since last I took. 
When first I saw ye, Cari luoghi, 

I'd scarce a beard upon my face. 
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, 

I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 

Where are you, old companions trusty 

Of early days, here met to dine 1 
Come, waiter ! quick, a flagon crusty — 

I'll pledge them in the good old wine. 
The kind old voices and old faces 

My memory can quick retrace ; 
Around the board they take their places. 

And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. 

There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage ; 

There's laughing Tom is laughing yet ; 
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage ; 

There's poor old Fred in the Gazette ; 
On James's head the grass is growing ; 

Good Lord ! the world has wagged apace 
Since here we set the Claret flowing, 

And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 

Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! 

I mind me of a time that's gone. 
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, 

In this same place — but not alone. 



SAINT FUR AY. 



177 



A fair young form was nestled near me, 

A dear, dear face looked fondly up. 
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me. 

— There's no one now to share my cup. 
****** 

I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes ; 
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it 

In memory of dear old times. 
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ; 

And sit you down and say your grace 
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. 

— Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse ! 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



Soint IJcrag. 

ADDRESSED TO H. T. P. 

When to any saint I pray, 
It shall be to Saint Peray. 
He alone, of all the brood, 
Ever did me any good : 
Many I have tried that are 
Humbugs in the calendar. 

On the Atlantic, faint and sick, ' 
Once I prayed Saint Dominick : 
He was holy, sure, and wise ; 
Was't not he that did devise 
Auto da Fes and rosaries 1 
But for one in my condition 
This good saint was no physician. 

Nest, in pleasant Normandie, 
I made a prayer to Saint Denis, 
In the great cathedral, where 

All the ancient kings repose ; 
But how I was swindled there 

At the " Golden Fleece," — he knows ! 

In mj wanderings, vague and various, 
Reaching Naples, as I lay 
Watching Vesuvius from the bay, 

I besought Saint Januarius ; 

But I was a fool to try him ; 

Naught I said could liquefy him ; 

And I swear he did me wrong, 

Keeping me shut up so long 



J-^ 



In that pest-house, with obscene 

Jews and Greeks and things unclean — 

What need had I of quarantine ? 

In Sicily at least a score — 
In Spain about as many more — 
And in Rome almost as many 
As the loves of Don Giovanni, 
Did I pray to — sans reply ; 
Devil take the tribe ! said I. 

Worn with travel, tired and lame, 

To Assisi's walls I came ; 

Sad and full of homesick fancies, 

I addressed me to Saint Francis ; 

But the beggar never did 

Any thing as he was bid. 

Never gave me aught — but fleas — 

Plenty had I at Assise. 

But in Provence, near Vaucluse, 

Hard by the Rhone, I found a Saint 
Gifted with a wondrous juice, 

Potent for the worst complaint. 
'Twas at Avignon that first. 
In the witching time of thirst, 
To my brain the knowledge came 
Of this blessed Catholic's name ; 
Forty miles of dust that day 
Made me welcome Saint Peray. 

Though till then I had not heard 
Aught about him, ere a third 
Of a litre passed my lips, 
AU saints else were in eclipse. 
For his gentle spirit glided 

With such magic into mine. 
That methought such bliss as I did 

Poet never drew from wine. 

Rest he gave me, and refection, 
Chastened hopes, calm retrospection, 
Softened images of sorrow. 
Bright forebodings for the morrow, 
Charity for what is past. 
Faith in something good at last. 

Now, why should any almanack 
The name of this good creature lack 1 
Or wherefore should the breviary 
Omit a saint so sage and merry ? 



178 



POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 



The Pope himself should grant a day 
Especially to Saint Peray. 
But, since no day hath been appointed, 
On purpose, by the Lord's anointed. 
Let us not wait — we'll do him right ; 
Send round your bottles, Hal, and set your night. 
Thomas William Paksons. 



JJ'igl)! at Sea. 

The lovely purple of the noon's bestowing 

Has vanished from the waters, where it flung 
A royal color, such as gems are throwing 

Tyi'ian or regal garniture among. 
'Tis night, and overhead the sky is gleaming. 

Through the slight vapor trembles each dim star ; 
I turn away — my heart is sadly dreaming 

Of scenes they do not light, of scenes afar. 
My friends, my absent friends ! 

Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 

By each dark wave around the vessel sweeping. 

Farther am I from old dear friends removed ; 
Till the lone vigil that I now am keeping, 

I did not know how riiuch you were beloved. 
How many acts of kindness little heeded. 

Kind looks, kind words, rise half reproachful now ! 
Hurried and anxious, my vexed life has speeded. 

And memory wears a soft accusing brow. 
My friends, my absent friends ! 
Do you think of me, as I think of you f 

The very stars are strangers, as I catch them 

Athwart the shadowy sails that swell above ; 
I cannot hope that other eyes will watch them 

At the same mom'ent with a mutual love. 
They shine not there, as here they now are shining ; 

The very hours are changed. Ah, do ye sleep ? 
O'er each home pillow midnight is declining^ 

May some kind dream at least my image keep ! 
My friends, my absent friends ! 
Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 

Yesterday has a charm, To-day could ne-\'er 
Fling o'er the mind, which knows not till it 
parts 

How it turns back with tenderest endeavor 
To fix the past within the heart of hearts. 



Absence is full of memory ; it teaches 
The value of all old familiar things ; 
The strengthener of affection, while it reaches 
O'er the dark parting, with an angel's wings. 
My friends, my absent friends ! 

Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 

The world, with one vast element omitted, 
Man's own especial element, the earth ; 
Yet, o'er the waters is his rule transmitted 
By that great knowledge whence has power its 
bu-th. 
How oft on some strange loveliness while gazing 

Have I wished for you — beautiful as new, 
The purple waves like some wild army raising 
Their snowy banners as the ship cuts through. 
My friends, my absent friends ! 
Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 

Bearing upon its wings the hues of morning, 

Up springs the flying fish like life's false joy, 
Wliich of the sunshine asks that frail adorning 

Whose very light is fated to destroy. 
Ah, so doth genius on its rainbow pinion 

Spring from the depths of an unkindly world ; 
So spring sweet fancies from the heart's domin- 
ion — 
Too soon in death the scorched-up wing is furled. 
My friends, my absent friends ! 
Whate'er I see is Imked with thoughts of 
you. 

No life is in the air, but in the waters 

Are creatures, huge, and terrible, and strong ; 
The sword-fish and the shark pursue their slaugh- 
ters, 
War universal reigns these depths along. 
Like some new island on the ocean springing. 
Floats on the surface some gigantic whale. 
From its vast head a silver fountain flinging, 
Bright as the fountain in a fairy tale. 
My friends, my absent friends ! 
I read such fairy legends while with you. 

Light is amid the gloomy canvas spreading. 
The moon is whitening the dusky sails, 

From the thick bank of clouds she masters, shed- 
ding 
The softest influence that o'er night prevails. 



THE JOURNEY ONWARDS. 



179 



Pale is she like a young queen pale with splendor, 
Haunted with passionate thoughts too fond, too 
deep; 
The very glory that she wears is tender, 
The eyes that watch her beauty fain would weep. 
My friends, my absent friends ! 
Do you think of me, as 1 think of you ? 

Sunshine is ever cheerful, when the morning 

Wakens the world with cloud-dispelling eyes ; 
The spirits mount to glad endeavor, scorning 

What toil upon a path so sunny lies. 
Sunshine and hope are comrades, and their weather 

Calls into life an energy like Spring's ; 
But memory and moonlight go together. 

Reflected in the light that either brings. 
My friends, my absent friends ! 
Do you think of me, then ? I think of you. 

The busy deck is hushed, no sounds are waking 

But the watch pacing silently and slow ; 
The waves against the sides incessant breaking, 

And rope and canvas swaying to and fro. 
The topmast sail, it seems like some dim pinnacle 

Cresting a shadowy tower amid the air ; 
While red and fitful gleams come from the binnacle, 

The only light on board to guide us — where ? 
My friends, my absent friends ! ' 
Far from my native land, and far from you. 

On one side of the ship, the moonbeam's shimmer 

In luminous vibrations sweeps the sea. 
But where the shadow falls, a strange, pale glimmer 

Seems, glow-worm like, amid the waves to be. 
All that the spirit thinks of thought and feeling. 

Takes visionary hues from such an hour ; 
But while some phantasy is o'er me stealing, 

I start — remembrance has a keener power : 
My friends, my absent friends ! 

From the fair dream I start to think of you. 

A dusk line in the moonlight — I discover 

Wliat all day long I vainly sought to catch ; 
Or is it but the varying clouds that hover 

Thick in the air, to mock the eyes that watch f 
No ; well the sailor knows each speck, appearing. 

Upon the tossing waves, the far-off strand ; 
To that dark line our eager ship is steering, 

Her voyage done — to-morrow we shall land. 

LiETiTiA Elizabeth Landon, 



®l)e Sourncg ©ntnarbs. 

As slow our ship her foamy track 

Against the wind was cleaving. 
Her trembling pennant still looked back 

To that dear isle 'twas leaving. 
So loth we part from all we love, 

From all the links that bind us ; 
So turn our hearts, as on we rove, 

To those we've left behind us ! 

When, round the bowl, of vanished years 

We talk with joyous seeming. 
With smiles that might as well be tears. 

So faint, so sad their beaming ; 
While memory brings us back again 

Each early tie that twined us. 
Oh sweet's the cup that circles then 

To those we've left behind us ! 

And when, in other climeS, we meet 

Some isle or vale enchanting. 
Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet. 

And naught but love is wanting ; 
We think how great had been our bliss 

If Heaven had but assigned us 
To live and die in scenes like this, 

With some we've left behind us ! 

As travellers oft look back at eve 

When eastward darkly going. 
To gaze upon that light thoy leave 

Still faint behind them glowing, — 
So when the close of pleasure's day 

To gloom hath near consigned us, 
We turn to catch one fading ray 

Of joy that's left behind us. 

Thomas Moohe. 



W^t ^oab gCimc (Hominig. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
We may not live to see the day. 
But earth shall glisten in the ray 

Of the good time coming. 



180 POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 


Cannon-balls may aid the truth, 


But shall play in healthful fields, 


But thought's a weapon stronger ; 


Till limbs and mind grow stronger ; 


We'll win our battle by its aid; — 


And every one shall read and write ; — 


Wait a little longer. 


Wait a little longer. 


There's a good time coming, boys, 


There's a good time coming, boys, 


A good time coming : 


A good time coming : 


The pen shall supersede the sword, 


The people shall be temperate. 


And Right, not Might, shall be the lord 


And shall love instead of hate, 


In the good time coming. 


In the good time coming. 


Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind. 


They shall use, and not abuse. 


And be acknowledged stronger ; 


And make all virtue stronger ; 


The proper impulse has been given ; — 


The reformation has begun ; — 


Wait a little longer. 


Wait a little longer. 


There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
War in all men's eyes shall be 


There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
Let us aid it all we can. 


A monster of iniquity 






Every woman, every man. 


In the good time coming. 
Nations shall not quarrel then, 
To prove which is the stronger ; 


The good time coming : 
Smallest helps, if rightly given. 

Make the impulse stronger ; 
'Twill be strong enough one day ; — 

Wait a little longer. 


Nor slaughter men for glory's sake ; — 
Wait a little longer. 


There's a good time coming, boys; 


Charles Mackay. 


A good time coming : • 




Hateful I'ivalries of creed 




Shall not make their martyrs bleed 
In the good time coming. 


% (Soob erimc ©oing! 


Religion shall be shorn of pride. 


ADDRESSED TO CHARLES MACKAY, ON HIS DEPAUTURE 


And flourish all the stronger ; 


FROM AMERICA. 


And Charity shall trim her lamp ; — 




Wait a little longer. 


Brave singer of the coming time. 




Sweet minstrel of the joyous present, 


There's a good time coming, boys, 


Crowned with the noblest wreath of rhyme. 


A good time coming : 


The holly-leaf of Ayrshire's peasant. 


And a poor man's family 


Good by ! Good by ! Our hearts and hands. 


Shall not be his misery 


Our lips in honest Saxon phrases. 


In the good time coming. 


Cry, God be with him, till he stands 


Every child shall be a help 


His feet among the English daisies ! 


To make his right arm stronger ; 




The happier he, the more he has ; — 


'Tis here we part ; — for other eyes 


Wait a little longer. 


The busy deck, the fluttering streamer. 




The dripping arms that plunge and rise, 


There's a good time coming, boys, * 


The waves in foam, the ship in tremor, 


A good time coming : 


The kerchiefs waving from the pier. 


Little children shall not toil 


The cloudy pillar gliding o'er him, 


Under, or above, the soil 


The deep blue desert, lone and drear. 


In the good time coming ; 


With heaven above and home before him ! 



THE MAHOGANY TREE. 



181 



His home ! — the Western giant smiles, 

And twiiis the spotty globe to find it ; 
This little speck the British Isles? 

'Tis but a freckle, — never mind it ! 
He laughs, and all his prairies roll, 

Each gurgling cataract roars and chuckles. 
And ridges stretched from pole to pole 

Heave till they crack their iz-on knuckles ! 

But Memory blushes at the sneer. 

And Honor turns with frown defiant, 
And Freedom, leaning on her spear. 

Laughs louder than the laughing giant : 
" An islet is a world," she said, 

" When glory with its dust has blended, 
And Britain keeps her noble dead 

Till earth and seas and skies are rended ! " 

Beneath each swinging forest-bough 

Some arm as stout in death reposes, — 
From wave-waslied foot to heaven-kissed brow 

Her valor's life-blood runs in roses ; 
Nay, let our brothers of the West 

Write smiling in their florid pages, 
One half her soil has walked the rest 

In poets, heroes, martyrs, sages ! 

Hugged in the clinging billow's clasp. 

From sea-weed fringe to mountain heather. 
The British oak with rooted grasp 

Her slender handful holds together ; 
With cliffs of white and bowers of green, 

And Ocean narrowing to caress her. 
And hUls and threaded streams between, — 

Our little mother isle, God bless her ! 

In earth's broad temple where we stand. 

Fanned by the eastern gales that brought us, 
We hold the missal in our hand. 

Bright with the lines our Mother taught us ; 
Where'er its blazoned page betrays 

The glistening links of gilded fetters, 
Behold, the half-turned leaf displays 

Her rubric stained in crimson letters ! 

Enough ! To speed a parting friend 
'Tis vain alike to speak and listen ; 

Yet stay, — these feeble accents blend 
With rays of light from eyes that glisten. 



Good by ! once more, — and kindly tell 
In words of peace the young world's story. 

And say, besides, we love too well 
Our mothers' soil, our fathers' glory ! 

Oliveb Wendell Holmes. 



®o mg CIotnpanionB. 

Ye heavy-hearted mariners 

Who sail this shore ! 
Ye patient, ye who labor 
Sitting at the sweeping oar. 
And see afar the flashing sea-g-ulls play 
On the free waters, and the glad bright day 
Twine with his hand the spray ! 

From out your dreariness, 
From your heart weariness, 
I speak, for I am yours 
On these gray shores. 

Nay, nay, I know not, mariners ! 

What cliffs they are 
That high uplift their smooth dark fronts, 
And sadly round us bar ; 
I do imagine that the free clouds play 
Above those eminent heights ; that somewhere Day 
Rides his triumphant way. 

And hath secure dominion 
Over our stern oblivion ; 
But see no path thereout 
To free from doubt. 

William Ellert Channing. 



Christmas is here ; 
Winds whistle shrill, 
Icy and chill. 
Little care we ; 
Little we fear 
Weather without, 
Sheltered about 
The Mahogany Tree. 

Once on the boughs 
Birds of rare plume 
Sang, in its bloom ; 
Night birds are we ; 



182 


POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 




Here we carouse, 






Singing, like them, 


tOliat migljt be ?Done. 




Perched round the stem 






Of the jolly old tree. 


What might be done if men were wise — 




What glorious deeds, my suffering brother, 




Here let us sport, 


Would they unite 




Boys, as we sit — 


In love and right, 




Laughter and wit 


And cease their scorn of one another ? 




Flashing so free. 
Life is but short ; 
When we are gone, 
Let them sing on, 


Oppression's heart might be imbued 
With kindling drops of loving-kindness ; 
And knowledge pour. 
From shore to shore. 




Round the old tree. 


Light on the eyes of mental blindness. 




Evenings we knew, 


All slavery, warfare, lies, and wrongs. 




Happy as this ; 


AU vice and crime, might die together ; 




Faces we miss, 


And wine and corn, 




Pleasant to see. 


To each man born. 




Kind hearts and true, 


Be free as warmth in summer weather. 




Gentle and Just, 




• 


Peace to your dust ! 


The meanest wretch that ever trod. 




We sing round the tree. 


The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow, 
Might stand erect 




Care, like a dun, 


In self-respect, 




Lurks at the gate : 


And share the teeming world to-morrow. 




Let the dog wait ; 






Happy we'll be ! 


What might be done ? This might be done. 




Drink, every one ; 


And more than this, my suffering brother — 




Pile up the coals ; 


More than the tongue 




Fill the red bowls, 


E'er said or sung, 




Round the old tree ! 


If men were wise and loved each other. 

Charles Mackat. 




Drain we the cup. 






Friend, art afraid ? 






Spirits are laid 
In the Red Sea. 


!l.«lb iDang 0j}nc. 




Mantle it up ; 


Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 




Empty it yet ; 


And never brought to min' ? 




Let us forget. 


Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 




Round the old tree ! 


And days o' lang syne ? 




Sorrows begone ! 


For auld lang syne, my dear, 




Life and its ills. 


For auld lang syne, 




Duns and their bills. 


We '11 tah a cup o' kindness yet, 




Bid we to flee. « 


For auld lang syne ! 




Come with the dawn, 


' 




Blue-devil sprite ; 


We twa hae run about the braes, 




Leave us to-night, 


And pu'd the gowans fine ; 




Round the old tree ! 


But we've wandered mony a weary foot 




William Makepeace Thackerat. 


Sin auld lang syne. 



CSEISTMAS. 183 


We twa hae paidl't i' the burn 


Rank misers now do sparing shun — 


Prae mornin' sun till dine ; 


Their hall of music soundeth ; 


But seas between us braid hae roared 


And dogs thence with whole shoulders run. 


Sin auld lang syne. 


So all things there aboundeth. 




The country folks themselves advance. 


And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 


With crowdy-muttons out of France ; 


And gie's a hand o' thine ; 


And Jack shall pipe, and Gill shall dance, 


And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught 


And all the town be merry. 


For auld lang syne ! 






Ned Squash has fetched his bands from pawn. 


And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, 


And all his best apparel : 


And surely I'll be mine ; 


Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn 


And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 


With dropping of the barrel. 


For auld lang syne. 


And those that hardly all the year 


For auld tang syne, my dear, 


Had bread to eat, or rags to wear. 


For auld lang syne. 


Will have both clothes and dainty fare, 


We '11 tak a cup o' kindness yet, 


And all the day be merry. 


For auld lamg syne I 




Robert Bubns. 


Now poor men to the justices 




With capons make their errants ; 




And if they hap to fail of these. 


€t)ristma0. 


They plague them with their warrants : 




But now they feed them with good cheer. 


So now is come our joj^ful'st feast ; 


And what they want they take in beer ; 


Let every man be jolly ; 


For Christmas comes but once a year. 


Each room with iry-leaves is drest, 


And then they shall be merry. 


And every post with holly. 




Though some churls at our mirth repine, 


Good farmers in the country nurse 


Eound your foreheads garlands twine. 


The poor, that else were undone ; 


Drown sorrow in a cup of wine. 


Some landlords spend their money worse. 


And let us all be merry. 


On lust and pride at London. 




There the roysters they do play. 


Now all our neighbors' chimneys smoke, 


Drab and dice their lands away. 


And Christmas blocks are burning ; 


Which may be ours another day. 


Their ovens they with baked meat choke, 


And therefore let's be merry. 


And all their spits are turning. 




Without the door let sorrow lie ; 


The client now his suit forbears ; 


And if for cold it hap to die, 


The prisoner's heart is eased ; 


We '11 bury 't in a Christmas pie. 


The debtor drinks away his cares. 


And evermore be merry. 


And for the time is pleased. 




Though others' purses be more fat. 


Now every lad is wond'rous trim, 


Why should we pine or grieve at that % 


And no man minds his labor; 


Hang sorrow ! Care will kill a cat. 


Our lasses have provided them 


And therefore let's be merry. 


A bagpipe and a tabor ; 




Young men and maids, and girls and boys. 


Hark ! now the wags abroad do call 


Give life to one another's Joys ; 


Each other forth to rambling ; 


And you anon shall by their noise 


Anon you'll see them in the hall, 


Perceive that they are merry. 


For nuts and apples scrambling. 



184 



POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 



Hark ! how the roofs with laughter sound ! 
Anon they'll think the house goes round, 
For they the cellar's depths have found, 
And there they will be merry. 

The wenches with their wassail bowls 

About the streets are singing ; 
The boys are come to catch the owls 

The wild mare in is bringing. 
Our kitchen boy hath broke his box ; 
And to the dealing of the ox 
Our honest neighbors come by flocks, 

And here they will be merry. 

Now kings and queens poor sheepcotes have, 
And mate with everybody ; 



The honest now may play the knave, 
And wise men play the noddy. 
Some youths will now a mumming go, 
Some others play at Rowland-bo, 
And twenty other game boys mo, 
Because they will be merry. 

Then wherefore, in these merry days, 
Should we, I pray, be duller ? 

No, let us sing some roundelays, 
To make our mirth the fuller ; 

And, while we thus inspired sing, 

Let all the streets with echoes ring ; 

Woods and hills and every thing, 
Bear witness we are merry I 

Geobqe Witheb. 



PART lY. 
POEMS OF LOYE 



Love ? I will tell thee what it is to love ! 

It is to build with human thoughts a shrine, 
Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove ; 

Where Time seems j'oung, and Life a thing divine. 

All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine 
To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss. 

Above, the stars in cloudless beauty shine ; 
Around, the streams their flowery margins kiss ; 
And if there's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely this. 

Yes, this is Love, the steadfast and the true, 

The immortal glory which hath never set ; 
The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er knew : 

Of all life's sweets the very sweetest yet ! 

O ! who but can recall the eve they met, 
To breathe, in some green walk, their first young vow ? 

While summer flowers with moonlight dews were wet, 
And winds sighed soft around the mountain's brow. 
And all was rapture then which is but memory now ! 

Chakles Swaih. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



^talonta'0 l^oce. 

Through thick Arcadian woods a hunter went, 
Following the beasts up, on a fresh spring day ; 
But since his horn-tipped bow, but seldom bent. 
Now at the noon-tide naught had happed to slay. 
Within a vale he called his hounds away, 
Hearkening the echoes of his lone voice cling 
About the cliffs and through the beech-trees ring. 

But when they ended, still awhile he stood, 
And but the sweet familiar thrush could- hear. 
And all the day-long noises of the wood. 
And o'er the dry leaves of the vanished year 
His hounds' feet pattering as they drew anear, 
And heavy breathing from their heads low hung, 
To see the mighty cornel bow unstrung. 

Then smiling did he turn to leave the place, 
But with his first step some new fleeting thought 
A shadow cast across his sunburnt face ; 
1 think the golden net that April brought 
From some warm world his wavering soul had 

caught ; 
For, sunk in vague sweet longing, did he go 
Betwixt the trees with doubtful steps and slow. 

Yet howsoever slow he went, at last 
The trees grew sparser, and the wood was done ; 
Wliereon one farewell, backward look he cast. 
Then, turning round to see what place was won, 
"With shaded eyes looked imderneath the sun. 
And o'er green meads and new-turned furrows 

brown 
Beheld the gleaming of King Schceneus' town. 



So thitherward he turned, and on each side 
The folk were busy on the teeming land, 
And man and maid from the brown furrows cried. 
Or midst the newly blossomed vines did stand. 
And as the rustic weapon pressed the hand 
Thought of the nodding of the well-filled ear, 
Or how the knife the heavy bunch should shear. 

Merry it was : about him sung the birds. 
The spring flowers bloomed along the firm dry 

road. 
The sleek-skinned mothers of the sharp-horned 

herds 
Now for the barefoot milking-maidens lowed ; 
While from the freshness of his blue abode. 
Glad his death-bearing arrows to forget. 
The broad sun blazed, nor scattered plagues as yet. 

Through such fair things unto the gates he 

came, 
And found them open, as though peace were 

there ; 
Wherethrough, unquestioned of his race or name. 
He entered, and along the streets 'gan fare. 
Which at the first of folk were wellnigh bare ; 
But pressing on, and going more hastily. 
Men hurrying too he 'gan at last to see. 

Following the last of these, he still pressed on, 
Until an open space he came unto. 
Where wreaths of fame had oft been lost and won. 
For feats of strength folk there were wont to do. 
And now our hunter looked for something new, 
Because the whole wide space was bare, and stilled 
The high seats were, with eager people filled. 



188 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



There with the others to a seat he gat, 
"Whence he beheld a broidered canopy, 
'Neath which in fair array King Schoeneus sat 
Upon his throne with councillors thereby ; 
And underneath this well-wi"ought seat and high. 
He saw a golden image of the sun, 
A sUver image of the Fleet-foot One. 

A brazen altar stood beneath their feet 
Whereon a thin flame flickered in the wind ; 
Nigh this a herald clad in raiment meet 
Made ready even now his horn to wind. 
By whom a huge man held a sword, intwined 
With yellow flowers ; these stood a little space 
Prom off the altar, nigh the starting-place. 

And there two runners did the sign abide 
Foot set to foot, — a young man slim and fair. 
Crisp-haired, well-knit, with firm limbs often 

tried 
In places where no man his strength may spare ; 
Dainty his thin coat was, and on his hair 
A golden circlet of renown he wore, 
And in his hand an olive garland bore. 

But on this day with whom shall he con- 
tend? 
A maid stood by him like Diana clad 
When in the woods she lists her bow to bend. 
Too fair for one to look on and be glad, 
Who scarcely yet has thirty summers had. 
If he must still behold her from afar ; 
Too fair to let the world live free from war. 

She seemed aU earthly matters to forget ; 
Of all tormenting lines her face was clear, 
Her wide gray eyes upon the goal were set 
Calm and unmoved as though no soul were near. 
But her foe trembled as a man in fear, 
Nor from her loveliness one moment turned 
His anxious face with fierce desire that burned. 

Now through the hush there broke the trumpet's 
clang 
Just as the setting sun made eventide. , 
Then from light feet a spurt of dust there sprang, 
And swiftly were they running side by side ; 
But silent did the thronging folk abide 
Until the turning-post was reached at last. 
And round about it still abreast they passed. 



But when the people saw how close they ran. 
When half-way to the starting-point they were, 
A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the man 
Headed the white-foot runner, and drew near 
Unto the very end of aU his fear ; 
And scarce his straining feet the ground could 

feel, 
And bliss unhoped for o'er his heart 'gan steal. 

But midst the loud victorious shouts he heard 
Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the sound 
Of fluttering raiment, and thereat afeard 
His flushed and eager face he turned around, 
And even then he felt her past him bound 
Fleet as the wind, but scarcely saw her there 
Till on the goal she laid her fingers fair. 

There stood she breathing like a little child 
Amid some warlike clamor laid asleep. 
For no victorious joy her red lips smiled. 
Her cheek its wonted freshness did but keep ; 
No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and deep, 
Though some divine thought softened all her face 
As once more rang the trumpet through the place. 

But her late foe stopped short amidst his course. 
One moment gazed upon her piteously, 
Then with a groan his lingering feet did force 
To leave the spot whence he her eyes could see ; 
And, changed like one who knows his time must be 
But short and bitter, without any word 
He knelt before the bearer of the sword ; 

Then high rose up the gleaming deadly blade. 
Bared of its flowers, and thi'ough the crowded 

place 
Was silence now, and midst of it the maid 
Went by the poor wretch at a gentle pace. 
And he to hers upturned his sad white face ; 
Nor did his eyes behold another sight 
Ere on his soul there fell eternal night. 



So was the pageant ended, and all folk 
Talking of this and that familiar thing 
In little groups from that sad concourse broke, 
For now the shrill bats were upon the wing. 
And soon dark night would slay the evening, 
And in dark gardens sang the nightingale 
Her little-heeded, oft-repeated tale. 



ATALAJSTTA'S RACE. 



189 



And with the last of all the hunter went, 
Who, wondering at the strange sight he had seen, 
Prayed an old man to tell him what it meant, 
Both why the vanquished man so slaia had been, 
And if the maiden were an earthly queen. 
Or rather what much more she seemed to be, 
No sharer in the world's mortality. 

" Stranger," said he, " I pray she soon may die. 
Whose lovely youth has slain so many an one ! 
King Schoeneus' daughter is she verily, 
Wlio when her eyes first looked upon the sun 
Was fain to end her life but new begun. 
For he had vowed to leave but men alone 
Sprung from his loins when he from earth was 
gone. 

" Therefore he bade one leave her in the wood, 
And let wild things deal with her as they might. 
But this being done, some cruel god thought good 
To save her beauty in the world's despite : 
Polk say that her, so delicate and white 
As now she is, a rough, root-grubbing bear 
Amidst her shapeless cubs at first did rear. 

" In course of time the woodf oik slew her nurse. 
And to their rude abode the youngling brought, 
And reared her up to be a kingdom's curse. 
Who grown a woman, of no kingdom thought, 
But armed and swift, 'mid beasts destruction 

VSTOUght, 

Nor spared two shaggy centaur kings to slay. 
To whom her body seemed an easy prey. 

" So to this city, led by fate, she came 
Whom known by signs, whereof I cannot tell. 
King Schoeneus for his child at last did claim. 
Nor otherwhere since that day doth she dwell. 
Sending too many a noble soul to hell. 
What ! thine eyes glisten ! what then, thinkest 

thou 
Her shining head unto the yoke to bow ? 

" Listen, my son, and love some other maid. 
For she the saffron gown will never wear. 
And on no flower-strewn couch shall she be laid, 
Nor shall her voice make glad a lover's ear : 
Yet if of Death thou hast not any fear. 
Yea, rather, if thou lovest him utterly, 
Thou still may'st woo her ere thou eomest to die. 



" Like him that on this day thou sawest lie dead ; 
For, fearing as I deem the sea-born one. 
The maid has vowed e'en such a man to wed 
As in the course her swift feet can outrun, 
Bat whoso fails herein, his days are done: 
He came the nighest that was slain to-day, 
Although with him I deem she did but play. 

" Behold, such mercy Atalanta gives 
To those that long to win her loveliness ; 
Be wise ! be sure that many a maid there lives 
Gentler than she, of beauty little less. 
Whose swimming eyes thy loving words shall 

bless, 
When in some garden, knee set close to knee. 
Thou sing'st the song that love may teach to 

thee." 

So to the hunter spake that ancient man, 
And left him for his own home presently : 
Buthe turned round, and through the moonlightwan 
Reached the thick wood, and there'twixt tree and tree 
Distraught he passed the long night feverishly, 
'Twixt sleep and waking, and at dawn arose 
To wage hot war against his speechless foes. 

There to the hart's flank seemed his shaft to grow. 
As panting down the broad green glades he flew. 
There by his horn the Dryads well might know 
His thrust against the bear's heart had been true. 
And there Adonis' bane his Javelin slew, 
But stUl in vain through rough and smooth he went. 
For none the more his restlessness was spent. 

So wandering, he to Argive cities came, 
And in the lists with valiant men he stood. 
And by great deeds he won him praise and fame. 
And heaps of wealth for little- valued blood ; 
But none of all these things, or life, seemed good 
Unto his heai-t, where still unsatisfled 
A ravenous longing warred with fear and pride. 

Therefore it happed when but a month had gone 
Since he had left King Schoeneus' city old. 
In hunting-gear again, again alone 
The forest-bordered meads did he behold. 
Where stU.1 mid thoughts of August's quivering 

gold 
Folk hoed the wheat, and clipped the vine in trust 
Of faint October's purple-foaming must. 



190 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



And once again he passed the peaceful gate, 
While to his beating heart his lips did lie, 
That, owning not victorious love and fate. 
Said, half aloud, " And here too must I try. 
To win of alien men the mastery. 
And gather for my head fresh meed of fame, 
And cast new glory on my father's name." 

In spite of that, how beat his heart, when first 
Folk said to him, " And art thou come to see 
That which still makes our city's name accurst 
Among all mothers for its cruelty f 
Then know indeed that fate is good to thee. 
Because to-morrow a new luckless one 
Against the whitefoot maid is pledged to run." 

So on the morrow with no curious eyes 
As once he did, that piteous sight he saw, 
Nor did that wonder in his heart arise 
As toward the goal the conquering maid 'gan 

draw. 
Nor did he gaze upon her eyes with awe. 
Too full the pain of longing filled his heart 
For fear or wonder there to have a part. 

But 0, how long the night was ere it went ! 
How long it was before the dawn begun 
Showed to the wakening birds the sun's intent 
That not in darkness should the world be done ! 
And then, and then, how long before the sun 
Bade silently the toilers of the earth 
Get forth to fruitless cares or empty mirth ! 

And long it seemed that in the market-place 
He stood and saw the chaffering folk go by, 
Ere from the ivory throne King Schceneus' face 
Looked down upon the murmur royally, 
But then came trembling that the time was nigh 
When he midst pitying looks his love must 

claim, 
And jeering voices must salute his name. 

But as the throng he pierced to gain the 
throne. 
His alien face distraught and anxious ^old 
What hopeless errand he was bound upon. 
And, each to each, folk whispered to behold 
His godlike limbs ; nay, and one woman old 
As he went by must pluck him by the sleeve 
And pray him yet that wretched love to leave. 



For sidling up she said, "Canst thou live twice. 
Fair son ? canst thou have joyful youth again, 
That thus thou goest to the sacrifice, 
Thyself the victim ? nay then, all in vain 
Thy mother bore her longing and her pain, 
And one more maiden on the earth must dwell 
Hopeless of joy, nor fearing death and hell. 

" fool, thou knowest not the compact then 
That with the three-formed goddess she has made 
To Iveep her from the loving lips of men, 
And in no saffron gown to be arrayed, 
And therewithal with glory to be paid, 
And love of her the moonlit river sees 
White 'gainst the shadow of the formless trees. 

" Come back, and I myself will pray for thee 
Unto the sea-born framer of delights. 
To give thee her who on the earth may be 
The fairest stirrer-up to death and fights. 
To quench with hopeful days and joyous nights 
The flame that doth thy youthful heart con- 
sume: 
Come back, nor give thy beauty to the tomb." 

How should he listen to her earnest speech ? 
Words, such as he not once or twice had said 
Unto himself, whose meaning scarce could reach 
The firm abode of that sad hardihead — 
He turned about, and through the marketstead 
Swiftly he passed, until before the throne 
In the cleared space he stood at last alone. 

Then said the King, " Stranger, what dost thou 
here? 
Have any of ray folk done ill to thee 1 
Or art thou of the forest men in fear ? 
Or art thou of the sad fraternity 
Who still will strive my daughter's mates to be. 
Staking their lives to win to earthly bliss 
The lonely maid, the friend of Artemis 1 " 

"0 King," he said, "thou sayest the word in- 
deed : 
Nor will I quit the strife till I have won 
My sweet delight, or death to end my need. 
And know that 1 am called Milanion, 
Of King Amphidamas the well-loved son: 
So fear not that to thy old name, King, 
Much loss or shame my victory will bring." 



ATALANTA'S HACK 



191 



" Nay, Prince," said Schceueus, " welcome to this 
land 
Thou wert indeed, if thou wert here to try 
Thy strength 'gainst some one mighty of his hand ; 
Nor would we grudge thee well-won mastery. 
But now, why wilt thou come to me to die, 
And at my door lay down thy luckless head, 
Swelling the band of the unhappy dead, 

" Whose curses even now my heart doth fear ? 
Lo, I am old, and know what life can be. 
And what a bitter thing is death anear. 
Son ! be wise, and hearken imto me, 
And if no other can be dear to thee, 
At least as now, yet is the world full wide, 
And bliss in seeming hopeless hearts may hide : 

" But if thou losest life, then all is lost." 
" Nay, King," Milanion said, " thy words are vain. 
Doubt not that 1 have counted well the cost. 
But say, on what day will thou that 1 gain 
Fulfilled delight, or death to end ray pain ? 
Right glad were I if it could be to-day. 
And all my doubts at rest forever lay." 

" Nay," said King Schceneus, " thus it shall not be, 
But rather shalt thou let a month go by. 
And weary with thy prayers for victory 
What god thou know'st the kindest and most nigh. 
So doing, still perchance thou shalt not die : 
And with my good- will wouldst thou have the maid, 
For of the equal gods I grow afraid. 

" And until then, Prince, be thou my guest. 
And all these troublous things awhile forget." 
" Nay," said he, " couldst thou give my soul good 

rest, 
And on mine head a sleepy garland set, 
Then had I 'scaped the meshes of the net. 
Nor shouldst thou hear from me another word ; 
But now, make sharp thy fearful heading sword. 

" Yet will I do what son of man may do. 
And promise all the gods may most desire. 
That to myself I may at least be true ; 
And on that day my heart and limbs so tire, 
With utmost strain and measureless desire. 
That, at the worst, I may but fall asleep 
When in the sunlight round that sword shall 
sweep." 



He went with that, nor anywhere would bide. 
But unto Argos restlessly did wend ; 
And there, as one who lays all hope aside. 
Because the leech has said his life must end. 
Silent farewell he bade to foe and friend. 
And took his way unto the restless sea. 
For there he deemed his rest and help might be. 



Upon the shore of Argolis there stands 
A temple to the goddess that he sought. 
That, turned unto the lion-bearing lands, 
Fenced from the east, of cold winds hath no thought. 
Though to no homestead there the sheaves are 

brought. 
No groaning press torments the close-clipped murk. 
Lonely the fane stands, far from all men's work. 

Pass through a close, set thick with myrtle-trees. 
Through the brass doors that guard the holy place. 
And entering, hear the washing of the seas 
That twice a day rise high above the base. 
And with the southwest urging them, embrace 
The marble feet of her that standeth there. 
That shrink not, naked though they be and fair. 

Small is the fane through which the sea-wind 
sings 
About Queen Venus' well-wrought image white. 
But hung around are many precious things, 
The gifts of those who, longing for delight. 
Have hung them there within the goddess' sight, 
And in return have taken at her hands 
The living treasures of the Grecian lands. 

And thither now has come Milanion, 
And showed unto the priests' wide-open eyes 
Gifts fairer than all those that there have shown. 
Silk cloths, inwrought with Indian fantasies, 
And bowls inscribed with sayings of the wise 
Above the deeds of foolish living things, 
And mirrors fit to be the gifts of kings. 

And now before the sea-born one he stands, 
By the sweet veiling smoke made dim and soft. 
And while the incense trickles from his hands. 
And while the odorous smoke-wreaths hang aloft, 
Thus doth he pray to her : '• Thou, who oft 
Hast holpen man and maid in their distress. 
Despise me not for this my wretchedness ! 



193 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



" goddess, among us who dwell below, 
Kings and great men, great for a little while, 
Have pity on the lowly heads that bow, 
Nor hate the hearts that love them without 

guile ; 
Wilt thou be worse than these, and is thy smile 
A vain device of him who set thee here. 
An empty dream of some artificer ? 

" great one, some men love, and are ashamed ; 
Some men are weary of the bonds of love ; 
Yea, and by some men lightly art thou blamed. 
That from thy toils their lives they cannot move. 
And mid the ranks of men their manhood prove. 
Alas ! goddess, if thou slayest me. 
What new immortal can I serve but thee ? 

" Think then, will it bring honor to thy head 
If folk say, ' Everything aside he cast 
And to all fame and honor was he dead, 
And to his one hope now is dead at last, 
Since all unholpen he is gone and past : 
Ah, the gods love not man, for certainly, 
He to his helper did not cease to cry.' 

" Nay, but thou wilt help ; they who died before 
Not single-hearted as I deem came here. 
Therefore unthanked they laid their gifts before 
Thy stainless feet, still shivering with their fear. 
Lest in their eyes their true thought might ap- 
pear, 
Who sought to be the lords of that fair town, 
Dreaded of men and winners of renown. 

" Queen, thou knowest I pray not for this : 
0, set us down together in some place 
Where not a voice can break our heaven of 

bliss. 
Where naught but rocks and I can see her face. 
Softening beneath the marvel of thy grace. 
Where not a foot our vanished steps can track, — 
The golden age, the golden age come back ! 

" fairest, hear me now, who do thy will. 
Plead for thy rebel that she be not slain, 
But live and love and be thy servant still : 
Ah, give her joy and take away my pain. 
And thus two long-enduring servants gain. 
An easy thing this is to do for me. 
What need of my vain words to weary thee ! 



" But none the less this place will I not leave 
Until I needs must go my death to meet. 
Or at thy hands some happy sign receive 
That in great joy we twain may one day greet 
Thy presence here and kiss thy silver feet, 
Such as we deem thee, fair beyond all words. 
Victorious o'er our servants and our lords." 

Then from the altar back a space he drew. 
But from the Queen turned not his face away, 
But 'gainst a pillar leaned, until the blue 
That arched the sky, at ending of the day, 
Was turned to ruddy gold and changing gray, 
And clear, but low, the nigh-ebbed windless sea 
In the still evening murmured ceaselessly. 

And there he stood when all the sun was down. 
Nor had he moved when the dim golden light. 
Like the far lustre of a godlike town. 
Had left the world to seeming hopeless night, 
Nor would he move the more when wan moon- 
light 
Streamed through the pillars for a little while. 
And lighted up the white Queen's changeless smile. 

Naught noted he the shallow flowing sea 
As step by step it set the wrack a-swim, 
The yellow torchlight nothing noted he 
Wherein with fluttering gown and half-bared limb 
The temple damsels sung their midnight hymn. 
And naught the doubled stillness of the fane 
When they were gone and all was hushed again. 

But when the waves had touched the marble 
base. 
And steps the fish swim over twice a day, 
The dawn beheld him sunken in his place 
Upon the floor ; and sleeping there he lay, 
Not heeding aught the little jets of spray 
The roughened sea brought nigh, across him cast. 
For as one dead all thought from him had passed. 

Yet long before the sun had showed his head. 
Long ere the varied hangings on the wall 
Had gained once more their blue and green and 

red. 
He rose as one some well-known sign doth call 
When war upon the city's gates doth faU, 
And scarce like one fresh risen out of sleep. 
He 'gan again his broken watch to keep. 



ATALANTA'S RACE. 



193 



Then he turned round ; not for the sea-gull's cry 
That wheeled above the temple in his flight, 
Not for the fresh south-wind that lovingly 
Breathed on the new-born day and dying night, 
But some strange hope 'twixt fear and great delight 
Drew round his face, now flushed, now pale and 

wan, 
And still constrained his eyes the sea to scan. 

Now a faint light lit up the southern sky, 
Not sun or moon, for all the world was gray, 
But this a bright cloud seemed, that drew anigh, 
Lighting the dull waves that beneath it lay 
As toward the temple stUl it took its way. 
And still grew greater, till Milanion 
Saw naught for dazzling light that round him 
shone. 

But as he staggered with his arms outspread, 
Delicious unnamed odors breathed around, 
For languid happiness he bowed his head. 
And with wet eyes sank down upon the ground. 
Nor wished for aught, nor any dream he found 
To give him reason for that happiness. 
Or make him ask more knowledge of his bliss. 

At last his eyes were cleared, and he could see 
Through happy tears the goddess face to face 
With that faint image of Divinity, 
Whose well-wrought smile and dainty changeless 

grace 
UntU that morn so gladdened all the place ; 
Then he unwitting cried aloud her name. 
And covered up his eyes for fear and shame. 

But through the stillness he her voice could hear 
Piercing his heart with joy scarce bearable. 
That said, " MUanion, wherefore dost thou fear ? 
I am not hard to those who love me well ; 
List to what I a second time will tell. 
And thou mayest hear perchance, and live to save 
The cruel maiden from a loveless grave. 

" See, by my feet three golden apples lie — 
Such fruit among the heavy roses .falls, 
Such fruit my watchful damsels carefully 
Store up within the best loved of my walls. 
Ancient Damascus, where the lover calls 
Above my unseen head, and faint and light 
The rose-leaves flutter round me in the night. 



" And note, that these are not alone most fair 
With heavenly gold, but longing strange they 

bring 
Unto the hearts of men, who will not care. 
Beholding these, for any once-loved thing 
Till round the shining sides their fingers cling. 
And thou shalt see thy well-girt swiftfoot maid 
By sight of these amid her glory stayed. 

" For bearing these within a scrip with thee. 
When first she heads thee from the starting-plaee. 
Cast down the first one for her eyes to see. 
And when she turns aside make on apace. 
And if again she heads thee in the race 
Spare not the other two to cast aside 
If she not long enough behind will bide. 

" Farewell, and when has come the happy time 
That she Diana's raiment must unbind 
And all the world seems blessed with Saturn's 

clime. 
And thou with eager arms about her twined 
Beholdest first her gray eyes growing kind. 
Surely, trembler, thou shalt scarcely then 
Forget the helper of unhappy men." 

Milanion raised his head at this last word. 
For now so soft and kind she seemed to be. 
No longer of her Grodhead was he feared ; 
Too late he looked, for nothing could he see 
But the white image glimmering doubtfully 
In the departing twilight cold and gray. 
And those three apples on the steps that lay. 

These then he caught up quivering with de- 
light. 
Yet fearful lest it all might be a dream. 
And though aweary with the watchful night. 
And sleepless nights of longing, still did deem 
He could not sleep ; but yet the first sunbeam 
That smote the fane aross the heaving deep 
Shone on him laid in calm untroubled sleep. 

But little ere the noontide did he rise. 
And why he felt so happy scarce could tell 
Until the gleaming apples met his eyes. 
Then leaving the fair place where this befell. 
Oft he looked back as one who loved it well. 
Then homeward to the haunts of men 'gan wend 
To bring all things unto a happy end. 



194 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Now has the lingering month at last gone by, 
Again are all folk round the running-place, 
Nor other seems the dismal pageantry 
Than heretofore, but that another face 
Looks o'er the smooth course ready for the race. 
For now, beheld of all, Milanion 
Stands on the spot he twice has looked upon. 

But yet what change is this that holds the 
maid? 
Does she indeed see in his glittering eye 
More than disdain of the sharp shearing blade. 
Some happy hope of help and victory ? 
The others seemed to say, " We come to die. 
Look down upon us for a little while. 
That, dead, we may bethink us of thy smile." 

But he — what look of mastery was this 
He cast on her 1 why were his lips so red f 
Why was his face so flushed with happiness ? 
So looks not one who deems himself but dead, 
E'en if to death he bows a willing head ; 
So rather looks a god well pleased to iind 
Some earthly damsel fashioned to his mind. 

Why must she drop her lids before his gaze. 
And even as she casts adown her eyes 
Redden to note his eager glance of praise, 
And wish that she were clad in other guise ? 
Why must the memory to her heart arise 
Of things unnoticed when they first were heard. 
Some lover's song, some answering maiden's word ? 

What makes these longings, vague, without a 

name. 
And this vain pity never felt before. 
This sudden languor, this contempt of fame. 
This tender sorrow for the time past o'er. 
These doubts that grow each minute more and 

more? 
Why does she tremble as the time grows near. 
And weak defeat and wof ul victory fear ? 

But while she seemed to hear her beating heart. 
Above their heads the trumpet blast raritg out. 
And forth they sprang ; and she must play her 

part ; 
Then flew her white feet, knowing not a doubt. 
Though, slackening once, she turned her head 

about. 



But then she cried aloud and faster fled 
Than e'er before, and all men deemed him 
dead. 

But with no sound he raised aloft his hand, 
And thence what seemed a ray of light there 

flew 
And past the maid rolled on along the sand ; 
Then trembling she her feet together drew, 
And in her heart a strong desire there grew 
To have the toy ; some god she thought had 

given 
That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven. 

Then from the course with eager steps she 

ran. 
And in her odorous bosom laid the gold. 
But when she turned again, the great-limbed 

man 
Now well ahead she failed not to behold, 
And, mindful of her glory waxing cold, 
Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit. 
Though with one hand she touched the golden 

fruit. 

Note, too, the bow that she was wont to bear 
She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize. 
And o'er her shoulder from the quiver fair 
Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes 
Unnoticed, as amidst the people's cries 
She sprang to head the strong Milanion, 
Who now the turning-post had wellnigh won. 

But as he set his mighty hand on it 
White flngers underneath his own were laid. 
And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did 

flit; 
Then he the second fruit cast by the maid, 
But she ran on awhile, then as afraid 
Wavered and stopped, and turned and made no 

stay. 
Until the globe with its bright fellow lay. 

Then, as a troubled glance she cast around, 
Now far ahead the Argive could she see. 
And in her garment's hem one hand she wound 
To keep the double prize, and strenuously 
Sped o'er the course, and little doubt had she 
To win the day, though now but scanty space 
Was left betwixt him and the winning-place. 



J 



SYR CAULINE. 



195 



Short was the way unto such winged feet, 
Quickly she gained upon him, till at last 
He turned about her eager eyes to meet, 
And from his hand the third fair apple cast. 
She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast 
After the prize that should her bliss fulfil, 
That in her hand it lay ere it was still. 

Nor did she rest, but turned about to win. 
Once more, an unblest woful victory — 
And yet — and yet — -why does her breath begin 
To fail her, and her feet drag heavily ? 
Why faUs she now to see if far or nigh 
The goal is ? why do her gray eyes grow dim ? 
Why do these tremors run through every limb ? 

She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find. 
Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth this, 
A strong man's arms about her body twined. 
Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss. 
So wrapped she is in new unbroken bliss : 
Made happy that the foe the prize hath won. 
She weeps glad tears for all her glory done. 

Shatter the trumpet, hew adown the posts ! 
Upon the brazen altar break the sword. 
And scatter incense to appease the ghosts 
Of those who died here by their own award. 
Bring forth the image of the mighty Lord, 
And her who unseen o'er the runners hung, 
And did a deed forever to be sung. 

Here are the gathered folk, make no delay. 
Open King Schoeneus' well filled-treasury, 
Bring out the gifts long hid from light of day. 
The golden bowls o'erwrought with imagery. 
Gold chains, and unguents brought from over 

sea. 
The saffron gown the old Phoenician brought. 
Within the temple of the Goddess wrought. 

ye, damsels, who shall never see 
Her, that Love's servant bringeth now to you. 
Returning from another victory. 
In some cool bower do all that now is due ! 
Since she in token of her service new 
Shall give to Venus offerings rich enow. 
Her maiden zone, her arrows, and her bow. 

William Morbis. 



ggr €aniine. 

THE PIBST PART. 

In Ireland, ferr over the sea. 
There dwelleth a bonnye kinge ; 

And with him a yong and comlye knighte, 
Men caU him Syr Cauline. 

The kinge had a ladye to his daughter. 

In fashyon she hath no peere ; 
And princely wightes that ladye wooed 

To be theyr wedded fere. 

Syr Cauline loveth her best of all. 

But nothing durst he saye, 
Ne desereeve his counsayl to no man, 

But deerlye he lovde this may. 

Till on a daye it so beffell 

Great diU to him was dight ; 
The mayden's love removde his mind, 

To care-bed went the knighte. 

One while he spred his armes him fro, 

One while he spred them nye : 
" And aye ! but I winne that ladye's love. 

For dole now I mun dye." 

And whan our parish-masse was done. 
Our kinge was bowne to dyne : 

He sayes, " Where is Syr Cauline, 
That is wont to serve the wyne ? " 

Then aunswerde him a courteous knighte, 
And fast his handes gan wringe : 

" Syr Cauline is sicke, and like to dye. 
Without a good leechinge." 

" Fetche me downe my daughter deere. 

She is a leeche f ulle fine ; 
Goe take him doughe and the baken bread. 
And serve him with the wyne soe red : 

Lothe I were him to tine." 

Fair Christabelle to his chaumber goes. 

Her maydens followyng nye : 
" Oh well, " she sayth, " how doth my lord f 

" Oh sicke, thou fayr ladye." 



196 POEMS OF LOVE. 


" Nowe ryse up wightlye, man, for shame ; 


Unto midnight, that the moone did rise, 


Never lye soe cow ardlee ; 


He walked up and downe ; 


For it is told in my father's halle 


Then a lightsome bugle heard he blowe 


You dye for love of mee." 


Over the bents soe browne ; 




Quoth hee, " If cryance come till my heart, 


" Payre ladye, it is for your love 


I am farre from any good towne." 


That all this dill I drye : 




For if you wold comfort me with a kisse, 


And soone he spyde on the mores so broad 


Then were I brought from bale to blisse, 


A furyous wight and fell ; 


No lenger wold I lye." 


A ladye bright his brydle led, 


" Syr knighte, my father is a kinge, 


Clad in a f ayre kyrtell : 


I am his onlye heire ; 


And soe fast he called on Syr Cauline, 
" man, I rede thee flye. 


Alas ! and well you knowe, syr knighte, 


I never can be youre fere." 


For but if cryance come till thy heart. 


" ladye, thou art a kinge's daughter, 


1 weene but thou mun dye." 


And I am not thy peere ; 




But let me doe some deedes of armes. 


He sayth, " No cryance comes till my heart, 


To be your bacheleere." 


Nor, in faith, I wyll not flee ; 


J 


For, cause thou minged not Christ before, 


" Some deedes of armes if thou wilt doe, 


The less me dreadeth thee," 


My bacheleere to bee 




(But ever and aye my heart wold rue, 


The Eldridge knighte, he pricked his steed ; 


Griff harm should happe to thee,) 


Syr Cauline bold abode : 




Then either shooke his trustye speare, 


" Upon Eldridge hill there groweth a thorne, 


And the timber these two children bare 


Upon the mores brodinge ; 


Soe soone in sunder slode. 


And dare ye, syr knighte, wake there all nighte, 




Untill the f ayi-e morninge ? 


Then tooke they out theyr two good swordes, 




And layden on full faste, 


" For the Eldridge knighte, so mickle of mighte. 


Till helme and hawberke, mail and sheelde, 


Will examine you bef orne ; 


They all were well-nighe brast. 


And never man bare life awaye. 




But he did him scath and scorne. 


The Eldridge knight was mickle of might, 




And sti^e in stower did stande ; 


" That knighte he is a foul paynim, 


But Syr Cauline with an aukeward stroke 
He smote off his right-hand ; 


And large of limb and bone ; 


And but if heaven may be thy speede, 


That soone he, with paine, and lacke of bloud, 


Thy life it is but gone." 


Fell downe on that lay-land. 


" Nowe on the Eldridge hilles He walke. 




For thy sake, fair ladie ; 


Then up Syr Cauline lift his brande 


And He either bring you a ready token, 


All over his head so hye : 


Or He never more you see." 


" And here I sweare by the holy roode, 




Nowe, caytiffe, thou shalt dye." 


The lady is gone to her own chaumbere, 




Her maydens following bright ; 


Then up and came that ladye brighte, 


Syr Cauline lope from care-bed soone. 


Faste wringing of her hande : 


And to the Eldridge hills is gone, 


" For the mayden's love, that most you love. 


For to walke there all night. 


Withold that deadlye brande : 



STB CAULINE. 197 


• " For the mayden's love, that most you love, 
Now smyte no more I praye ; 
And aye whatever thou wilt, my lord. 
He shall thy hests obaye." 


" ladye, I am thy own true knighte. 

Thy hests for to obaye ; 
And mought I hope to winne thy love ! " 

No more his tonge colde say. 


" Now sweare to mee, thou Eldridge knighte, 

And here on this lay-land. 
That thou wUt believe on Christ his laye, 

And therto plight thy hand : 


The ladye blushed scarlette redde, 

And fette a gentill sighe : 
" Alas ! syr knight, how may this bee. 

For my degree 's soe highe ? 


" And that thou never on Eldridge hill come 

To sporte, gamon, or playe ; 
And that thou here give up thy armes 

UntU thy dying daye." 

The Eldridge knighte gave up his armes, 
With many a sorrowf ulle sighe ; 

And sware to obey Syr Cauline's best, 
Tin the tyme that he shold dye. 


" But sith thou hast hight, thou comely youth. 

To be my bachelere. 
He promise, if thee I may not wedde, 

I wiU have none other fere." 

Then shee held forthe her liley-white hand 

Towards that knighte so free ; 
He gave to it one gentill kisse. 
His heart was brought from bale to blisse. 

The teares sterte from his ee. 


And he then, up, and the Eldridge knighte 

Sett him in his saddle anone ; 
And the Eldridge knighte and his ladye, 

To theyr castle are they gone. 


" But keep my counsayl, Syr Cauline, 

Ne let no man it knows ; 
For, and ever my father sholde it ken, 

I wot he wolde us sloe." 


Then he tooke up the bloudy hand, 

That was so large of bone, 
And on it he founde five ringes of gold, 

Of knightes that had be slone. 


Prom that daye forthe, that ladye fayre 
Lovde Syr Cauline the knighte ; 

From that daye forthe, he only joyde 
Whan shee was in his sight. 


Then he tooke up the Eldridge sworde, 

As hard as any flint ; 
And he tooke off those ringes five. 

As bright as fyre and brent. 


Yea, and oftentimes they mette 

Within a fayre arboure. 
Where they, in love and sweet daliaunce. 

Past manye a pleasaunt houre. 


Home then pricked Syr Canline, 
As light as leafe on tree ; 

I-wys he neither stint ne blanne, 
TiLL he his ladye see. 


THE SECOND PART. 

EvERYE white will have its blacke. 
And everye sweete its sowre : 

This founde the ladye Christabelle 
In an untimely howre. 


Then downe he knelt upon his knee 

Before that lady gay : 
" ladye, I have bin on the Eldridge hills ; 

These tokens I bring away." 


For so it befelle, as Syr Cauline 
Was with that ladye faire, 

The kinge, her father, walked forthe 
To take the evenyng aire : 


" Now welcome, welcome, Syr Cauline, 

Thrice welcome unto mee. 
For now I perceive thou art a true knighte. 

Of valour bolde and free." 


And into the arboure as he went 

To rest his wearye feet, 
He found his daughter and Syr Cauline 

There sette in daliaunce sweet. 



198 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



The kinge hee sterted forthe, I-wys, 

And an angrye man was hee : 
" Nowe, traytoure, thoii shalt hange or drawe, 

And rewe shall thy ladle." 

Then forthe Syr Cauline he was ledde, 
And throwne in dungeon deepe ; 

And the ladye into a towi-e so hye, 
There left to wayle and weepe. 

The queene she was Syr Cauline's friend, 

And to the kinge sayd shee : 
" I pray you save Syr Cauline's life, 

And let him banisht bee." 

" Now, dame, that traytoure shall be sent 

Across the salt-sea f ome ; 
But here I will make thee a band, 
If ever he come within this land, 

A foule deathe is his doome." 

All woe-begone was that gentil knight 

To parte from his ladye ; 
And many a time he sighed sore, 

And cast a wistf uUe eye : 
" Faire Christabelle, from thee to parte, 

Farre lever had I dye." 

Faire Christabelle, that ladye bright. 

Was had forthe of the towre ; 
But ever shee droopeth in her minde, 
As nipt by an ungentle winde 

Doth some faire liley flowre. 

And ever shee doth lament and weepe, 

To tint her lover soe : 
" Syr Cauline, thou little think'st on mee, 

But I will still be true." 

Manye a kinge, and manye a duke. 

And lorde of high degree, 
Did sue to that fayre ladye of love ; 

But never shee wolde them nee. 

When manye a daye was past and gone, 

Ne eomforte shee colde flnde. 
The kynge proclaimed a toumeament. 

To cheere his daughter's mind. 



And there came lords, and there came knightes 

Fro manye a farre countrye. 
To break a spere for theyr ladye's love. 

Before that faire ladye. 

And many a ladye there was sette. 

In purple and in palle ; 
But faire Christabelle, soe woe-begone. 

Was the fayrest of them all. 

Then manye a knighte was mickle of might. 

Before his ladye gaye ; 
But a stranger wight, whom no man knewe. 

He wan the prize eche daye. 

His acton it was all of blacke. 

His hewberke and his sheelde ; 
Ne noe man wist whence he did come, 
Ne noe man knewe where he did gone. 

When they came out the feelde. 

And now three days were prestlye past 

In feates of chivalrye. 
When lo ! upon the fourth morninge, 

A sorrowfuUe sight they see : 

A hugye gyaunt stifEe and starke. 

All foule of limbe and lere. 
Two goggling eyen, like fire farden, 

A mouthe from eare to eare. 

Before him came a dwarffe full lowe, 

That waited on his knee ; 
And at his backe five heads he bare. 

All wan and pale of blee. 

" Sir," quoth the dwarffe, and louted lowe, 

" Behold that hend soldain ! 
Behold these heads I beare with me ! 

They are kings which he hath slain. 

" The Eldridge knighte is his own cousine. 

Whom a knighte of thine hath shent ; 
And hee is come to avenge his wrong : 
And to thee, all thy knightes among. 
Defiance here hath sent. 

" But yette he wOl appease his wrath. 

Thy daiTghter's love to winne ; 
And, but thou yeelde him that fayre maid, 

Thy halls and towei-s must brenne. 



SYB CAULINE. 199 


" Thy head, syr king, must goe with mee, 

Or else thy daughter dere ; 
Or else within these lists soe broad, 

Thou must finde him a peere." 


Then forthe the stranger knighte he came. 

In his blacke armoure dight ; 
The ladye sighed a gentle sighe, 

" That this were my true knighte ! " 


The kings he turned him round aboute, 

And in his heart was woe : 
" Is there never a knighte of my round table 

This matter will undergoe ? 


And nowe the gyaunt aiid knighte be mett 

Within the lists soe broad ; 
And now, with swordes soe sharps of Steele, 

They gan to lay on load. 


" Is there never a knighte amongst yee all 
Will fight for my daughter and mee % 

"Whoever will fight yon grimme soldan. 
Right fair his meede shall bee. 


The soldan stnicke the knighte a stroke 
That made him reele asyde ; 

Then woe-begone was that fayre ladye, 
And thrice she deeply sighde. 


" For hee shall have my broad lay-lands. 
And of my crowne be heyre ; 

And he shall winne fayre Christabelle 
To be his wedded fere." 


The soldan strucke a second stroke. 
And made the blonde to flowe ; 

All pale and wan was that ladye fayre, 
And thrice she wept for woe. 


But every knighte of his round table 

Did stand both still and pale ; 
For, whenever they lookt on the grim soldan. 

It made their hearts to quail. 


The soldan strucke a third fell stroke. 
Which brought the knighte on his knee ; 

Sad sorrow pierced that ladyes heart. 
And she shriekt loud shriekings three. 


All woe-begone was that fayre ladye, 
When she sawe no helpe was nye ; 

She east her thought on her owne true-love, 
And the teares gusht from her eye. 


The knighte he leapt upon his feete. 

All recklesse of the pain ; 
Quoth hee, " But heaven be now my speede, 

Or else I shall be slaine." 


Up then sterte the stranger knighte, 
Sayd, " Ladye, be not affrayd ; 

lie fight for thee with this grimme soldan, 
Thoughe he be unmacklye made. 


He grasped his sworde with mayne and mighte, 

And spying a secrette part. 
He drave it into the soldan's syde, 

And pierced him to the heart. 


" And if thou wilt lend me the Eldridge sworde, 

That lyeth within thy bowre, 
I truste in Christe for to slay this fiende, 

Thoughe he be stifE in stowre." 


Then all the people gave a shoute. 
Whan they sawe the soldan falle ; 

The ladye wept, and thanked Christ 
That had reskewed her from thrall. 


" Goe fetch him downe the Eldridge sworde," 
The kinge he cryde, " with speede : 

Nowe, heaven assist thee, courteous knighte ; 
My daughter is thy meede." 


And nowe the kinge, with all his barons. 
Rose uppe from oife his seate. 

And downe he stepped into the listes 
That curteous knighte to greete. 


The gyaunt he stepped into the lists. 
And sayd, " Awaye, awaye ! 

I sweare, as I am the hend soldan, 
Thou lettest me here all daye." 


But he, for payne and lacke of bloude, 
Was fallen into a swounde, 

And there, all walteringe in his gore, 
Lay lifeless on the grounde. 



300 P0E3IS OF LOVE. 


" Come downe, come downe, my daughter deare, 


So in every shoulder they 've putten a bore ; 


Thou art a leeche of sWlle ; 


In every bore they 've putten a tree ; 


Farre lever had I lose halfe my landes 


And they have made him trail the wine 


Than this good knighte sholde spille." 


And spices on his fair bodie. 


Downe then steppeth that fayre ladye, 


They 've casten him in a dungeon deep, 


To helpe him if she maye ; 


Where he could neither hear nor see ; 


But when she did his beavere raise, 


For seven years they kept him there. 


" It is my life, my lord ! " she sayes. 


Till he for hunger 's like to die. 


And shriekte and swound awaye. 






This Moor he had but ae daughter, 


Sir Cauline juste lifte up his eyes, 


Her name was called Susie Pye ; 


When he heard his ladye crye : 
" ladye, I am thine owne true love ; 


And every day as she took the air, 
Near Beichan's prison she passed by. 


For thee I wisht to dye." 


Oh so it fell, upon a day 




She heard young Beichan sadly sing : 


Then giving her one partinge looke, 


" My hounds they all go masterless ; 


He closed his eyes in death. 
Ere Christabelle, that ladye mUde, 


My hawks they flee from tree to tree ; 
My younger brother will heir my land ; 


Begane to drawe her breath. 


Fair England again I '11 never see ! " 


But when she found her comelye knighte 


All night long no rest she got. 


Indeed was dead and gone. 


Young Beichan's song for thinking on ; 


She layde her pale, cold cheeke to his, 


She 's stown the keys from her father's head. 


And thus she made her moane : 


And to the prison strong is gone. 


" Oh staye, my deare and onlye lord. 


And she has opened the prison doors. 


For mee, thy faithf uUe fere ; 


I wot she opened two or three, 


'Tis meet that I shold followe thee, 


Ere she could come young Beichan at, 


Who hast bought my love so deare." 


He was locked up so curiouslie. 


Then fayntinge in a deadlye swoune, 


But when she came young Beichan before. 


Jo J J 

And with a deep-fette sighe 


Sore wondered he that may to see ; 


That burst her gentle heart in twayne. 


He took her for some fair captive ; 


Fayre Christabelle did dye. 


" Fair Lady, I pray, of what countrie ? " 


Anonymous. 






" Oh have ye any lands," she said. 




" Or castles in your own countrie. 




That ye could give to a la,dy fair. 


f onng Sciclian onb Susie Pge. 


From prison strong to set you free ? " 


In London was young Beichan born, 


" Near London town I have a hall, 


He longed strange countries for to see; 


With other castles two or three ; 


But he was taen by a savage Moor, 


I '11 give them all to the lady fair 


Who handled him right cruellie ; 


That out of prison will set me free." 


For he viewed the fashions of that land : 


" Give me the truth of your right hand. 


Their way of worship viewed he ; 


The truth of it give unto me. 


But to Mahound, or Termagant, 


That for seven years ye '11 no lady wed. 


Would Beichan never bend a knee. 


Unless it be along with me." 



YOUNG BEICHAN AND SUSIE PYE. 



201 



" I '11 give thee the truth of my right hand, 

The truth of it I '11 freely gie, 
That for seven years I '11 stay unwed, 

For the kindness thou dost show to me." 

And she has bribed the proud warder 
Wi' micMe gold and white monie ; 

She 's gotten the keys of the prison strong, 
And she has set young Beichan free. 

She 's gi'en him to eat the good spice-cake ; 

She 's gi'en him to drink the blood-red wine ; 
She 's bidden him sometimes think on her 

That sae kindly freed him out of pine. 

She 's broken a ring from her finger, 
And to Beichan half of it gave she : 

" Keep it to mind you of that love 
The lady bore that set you free. 

" And set your foot on good ship-board. 
And haste ye back to your own countrie ; 

And before that seven years have an end, 
Come back again, love, and marry me." 

But long ere seven years had an end. 
She longed full sore her love to see ; 

For ever a voice within her breast • 
Said, " Beichan has broke his vow to thee." 

So she 's set her foot on good ship-board. 
And turned her back on her own countrie. 

She sailed east, she sailed west, 

TiU to fair England's shore she came ; 

Where a bonny shepherd she espied. 
Feeding his sheep upon the plain. 

" What news, what news, thou bonny shepherd S 
What news has thou to tell to me ? " 

" Such news I hear, ladie," he says, 
" The like was never in this countrie. 

" There is a wedding in yonder hall. 
Has lasted these thirty days and three ; 

Young Beichan will not bed with his bride, 
For love of one that 's yond the sea." 

She 's put her hand in her pocket, 
Gi'en him the gold and white monie ; 

" Here, take ye that, my bonny boy. 
For the good news thou tell'st to me." 



When she came to young Beichan's gate, 

She tirled softly at the pin ; 
So ready was the proud porter 

To open and let this lady in. 

" Is this young Beichan's hall," she said, 
" Or is that noble lord within f " 

" Yea, he 's in the hall among them all, 
And this is the day o' his weddin." 

" And has he wed anither love ? 

And has he clean forgotten me ? " 
And, sighin', said that gay ladie, 

" I wish I were in my own countrie." 

And she has taen her gay gold ring. 
That with her love she brake so free ; 

Says, " Gie him that, ye proud porter. 
And bid the bridegroom speak to me." 

When the porter came his lord before, 
He kneeled down low on his knee — 

" What aUeth thee, my proud porter. 
Thou art so full of courtesie ? " 

" I 've been porter at your gates. 
It 's thirty long years now and three ; 

But there stands a lady at them now, 
The like o' her did I never see ; 

" For on every finger she has a ring, 
And on her mid finger she has three ; 

And as meickle gold aboon her brow 
As would buy an earldom to me." 

It 's out then spak the bride's mother, 
Aye and an angry woman was shee ; 

" Ye might have expected our bonny bride. 
And twa or three of our companie." 

" Oh hold your tongue, thou bride's mother 

Of all your folly let me be ; 
She 's ten times fairer nor the bride. 

And all that 's in your companie. 

" She begs one sheave of your white bread. 
But and a cup of your red wine ; 

And to remember the lady's love, 
That last relieved you out of pine." 



203 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



" Oh well-a-day ! " said Beichan then, 
" That I so soon have married thee ! 

For it can be none but Susie Pye, 
That sailed the sea for love of me." 

And quickly hied he down the stair ; 

Of fifteen steps he made but three ; 
He's ta'en his bonny love in his arms, 

And kist, and kist her tenderlie. 

" Oh hae ye ta'en anither bride ? 

And hae ye quite forgotten me ? 
And hae ye quite forgotten her, 

That gave you life and Ubertie ? " 

She looked o'er her left shoulder, 

To hide the tears stood in her e'e : 
" Now fare thee well, young Beichan,' 



she 



"I'll try to think no more on thee." 

" never, never, Susie Pye, 

For surely this can never be ; 
Nor ever shall I wed but her 

That's done and dree'd so much for me." 

Then out and spak the forenoon bride — 
" My lord, your love it changeth soon ; 

This morning I was made your bride, 
And another's chose ere it be noon." 

" Oh hold thy tongue, thou forenoon bride ; 

Ye're ne'er a whit the worse for me ; 
And whan ye return to your own countrie, 

A double dower I'll send with thee." 

He's taen Susie Pye by the white hand. 

And gently led her up and down ; 
And ay, as he kist her red rosy lips, 

" Ye're welcome. Jewel, to your own." 

He's taen her by the milk-white hand, 
And led her to yon fountain stane ; 

He's changed her name from Susie Pye, 

And he's called her his bonny love, Lady 

Jane. 

Anonymous. 



®l)e CEari o' dixartcrbeck. 

The wind it blew, and the ship it flew; 

And it was " Hey for hame ! 
And ho for hame ! " But the skipper cried, 

" Hand her oot o'er the saut sea faem." 

Then up and spoke the king himsel' : 

" Hand on for Dumf erline ! " 
Quo the skipper, "Ye're king upo' the land — 

I'm king upo' the brine." 

And he took the helm intil his hand. 

And he steered the ship sae free ; 
Wi' the wind astarn, he crowded sail, 

And stood right out to sea. 

Quo the king, " There 's treason in this, I vow ; 

This is something underhand ! 
'Bout ship ! " Quo the skipper, " Yer grace forgets 

Ye are king but o' the land ! " 

And still he held to the open sea ; 

And the east wind sank behind ; 
And the west had a bitter word to say, 

Wi' a white-sea roarin' wind. 

And he turned her head into the north. 

Said the king : " Gar fling him o'er." 
Quo the fearless skipper : " It's a' ye're worth I 

Ye '11 ne'er see Scotland more." 

The king crept down the cabin-stair, 

To drink the gude French wine. 
And up she came, his daughter fair, 

And luikit ower the brine. 

She turned her face to the drivin' hail. 

To the hail but and the weet ; 
Her snood it brak, and, as lang's hersel', 

Her hair drave out i' the sleet. 

She turned her face f rae the drivin' win' — 

" What 's that ahead?" quo she. 
The skipper he threw himsel' frae the win', 

And he drove the helm a-lee. 

" Put to yer hand, my lady fair ! 

Put to yer hand," quoth he : 
" Gin she dinna face the win' the mair, 

It 's the waur for you and me." 



215"^; EARL 0' QUARTERDECK. 



203 



For the skipper kenned that strength is strength, 

Whether -woman's or man's at last. 
To the tiller the lady she laid her han', 

And the ship laid her cheek to the blast. 

For that slender body was full o' soul, 

And the will is mair than shape ; 
As the skipper saw when they cleared the berg, 

And he heard her quarter scrape. 

Quo the skipper : " Ye are a lady fair. 

And a princess grand to see ; 
But ye are a woman, and a man wad sail 

To hell in yer company." 

She liftit a pale and a queenly face ; 

Her een flashed, and syne they swam. 
" And what for no to heaven 1 " she says, 

And she turned awa' frae him. 

But she took na her han' frae the good ship's helm. 

Until the day did daw', 
And the skipper he spak, but what he said 

It was said atween them twa. 

And then the good ship she lay to, 

With the land far on the lee ; 
And up cam the king upo' the deck, 

Wi' wan face and bluidshot ee. 

The skipper he louted to the king : 

" Gae wa', gae wa'," said the king. 
Said the king like a prince, " I was a' wrang, 

Put on this ruby ring." 

And the wind blew lowne, and the stars cam oot. 

And the ship turned to the shore ; 
And, afore the sun was up again, 

They saw Scotland ance more. 

That day the ship hung at the pier held, 

And the king he stept on the land, 
" Skipper, kneel down," the king he said, 

" Hoo daur ye afore me stand '? " 

The skipper he louted on his knee, 

The king his blade he drew : 
Said the king, " How daured ye centre me f 

I'm aboard my ain ship noo. 



" I canna mak ye a king," said he, 
" For the Lord alone can do that ; 

And besides ye took it intil yer ain han', 
And crooned yersel' sae pat ! 

" But wi' what ye will I redeem my ring ; 

For ance I am at your beck. 
And first, as ye loutit Skipper o' Doon, 

Rise up Yerl o' Quarterdeck." 

The skipper he rose and looked at the king 

In his een for all his croon ; 
Said the skipper, " Here is yer grace's ring, 

And yer daughter is my boon." 

The reid blude sprang into the king's face, — 

A wrathful man to see : 
" The rascal loon abuses our grace ; 

Gae hang him upon yon tree." 

But the skipper he sprang aboard his ship, 

And he drew his biting blade ; 
And he struck the chain that held her fast. 

But the iron was ower weel made. 

And the king he blew a whistle loud ; 

And tramp, tramp, down the pier. 
Cam twenty riders on twenty steeds, 

Clankin' wf spur and spear. 

" He saved yoiir life ! " cried the lady fair ; 

" His life ye daurna spill ! " 
" Will ye come atween me and my hate ? " 

Quo the lady, " And that I will ! " 

And on cam the knights wi' spur and spear. 

For they heard the ii-on ring. 
" Gin ye care na for yer father's grace, 

Mind ye that I am the king." 

" I kneel to my father for his grace, 

Right lowly on my knee ; 
But I stand and look the king in the face, 

For the skipper is king o' me." 

She turned and she sprang upo' the deck, 
And the cable splashed in the sea. 

The good ship spread her wings sae white. 
And away with the skipper goes she. 



204 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Now was not this a king's daughter, 

And a brave lady beside f 
And a woman with whom a man might sail 

Into the heaven wi' pride ? 

Geokge MacDonald. 



Lord Lovel he stood at his castle gate, 

Combing his milk-white steed ; 
"When up came Lady Nancy Belle, 

To wish her lover good speed, speed. 

To wish her lover good speed. 

" Where are you going, Lord Lovel ? " she said, 
" Oh ! where are you going f " said she ; 

" I 'm going, my Lady Nancy Belle, 
Strange countries for to see, to see. 
Strange countries for to see." 

" When will you be back. Lord Lovel ? " said she ; 

" ! when will you come back ? " said she ; 
" In a year or two — or three, at the most, 

I 'U return to my fair Nancy-cy, 

I '11 return to my fair Nancy." 

But he had not been gone a year and a day. 

Strange countries for to see. 
When languishing thoughts came into his head. 

Lady Nancy Belle he would go see, see, 

Lady Nancy Belle he would go see. 

So he rode, and he rode on his milk-white steed. 
Till he came to London town. 

And there he heard St. Pancras' bells, 

And the people all mourning, round, round, 
And the people all mourning round. 

" Oh, what is the matter," Lord Lovel he said, 
" Oh ! what is the matter f " said he ; 

" A lord's lady is dead," a woman replied, 
" And some call her Lady Nancy-cy, 
And some call her Lady Nancy." 

So he ordered the grave to be opened wide, 

And the shroud he turned down. 
And there he kissed her clay-cold lips, 

Till the tears came trickling down, down, 

TiU the tears came trickling down. 



Lady Nancy she died as it might be to-day. 

Lord Lovel he died as to-morrow ; 
Lady Nancy she died out of pure, pure grief, 

Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow, sorrow. 

Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow. 

Lady Nancy was laid in St. Pancras' church. 

Lord Lovel was laid in the choir ; 
And out of her bosom there grew a red rose, 

And out of her lover's a brier, brier, 

And out of her lover's a brier. 

They grew, and they grew, to the church steeple top. 
And then they could grow no higher : 

So there they entwined in a true-lover's knot. 

For all lovers true to admire-mire. 

For all lovers true to admire. 

Anontmotts. 



Eobin ^oab ant 5^Ucn-o-?Ilale. 

Come listen to me, you gallants so free, 
All you that love mirth for to hear. 

And I wiU tell you of a bold outlaw. 
That lived in Nottinghamshire. 

As Robin Hood in the forest stood. 
All imder the greenwood tree. 

There he was aware of a brave young man. 
As fine as fine might be. 

The youngster was clad in scarlet red, 

In scarlet fine and gay ; 
And he did frisk it over the plain. 

And chaunted a roundelay. 

As Robin Hood next morning stood 

Amongst the leaves so gay. 
There did he espy the same young man 

Come drooping along the way. 

The scarlet he wore the day before 

It was clean cast away ; 
And at every step he fetched a sigh, 

'* Alas ! and a well-a-day ! " 

Then stepped forth brave Little John, 
And Midge, the miller's son ; 

"Which made the young man bend his bow, 
"Wlien as he see them come. 



ROBIN HOOD AND ALLEN-A-DALE. 



205 



" Stand off ! stand off 1 " the young man said, 

" "What is your will with me f " 
" You must come before our master straight, 

Under yon greenwood tree." 

And when he came bold Robin before, 

Robin asked him courteously, 
" 0, hast thou any money to spare, 

For my merry men and me f " 

" 1 have no money," the young man said, 

" But five shillings and a ring ; 
And that I have kept this seven long years. 

To have at my wedding. 

" Yesterday I should have married a maid. 

But she was from me ta'en, 
And chosen to be an old knight's delight, 

Whereby my poor heart is slain." 

" What is thy name ? " then said Robin Hood, 
" Come tell me, without any fail." 

" By the faith of my body," then said the young 
man, 
" My name it is Allen-a-Dale." 

" What wilt thou give me," said Robin Hood, 

" In ready gold or fee. 
To help thee to thy true love again, 

And deliver her unto thee ? " 

" I have no money," then quoth the young man. 

No I'eady gold nor fee. 
But I will swear upon a book 

Thy true servant for to be." 

" How many miles is it to thy true love ? 

Come tell me without guile." 
"By the faith of my body," then said the young 
man, 

" It is but five little mUe." 

Then Robin he hasted over the plain ; 

He did neither stint nor lin. 
Until he came unto the church 

Where AUen should keep his weddin'. 

" What hast thou here f " the bishop then said ; 

" I prithee now tell unto me." 
" I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood, 

" And the best in the north country." 



" Oh welcome, oh welcome," the bishop he said ; 

" That music best pleaseth me." 
" You shall have no music," quoth Robin Hood, 

" Till the bride and bridegroom I see." 

With that came in a wealthy knight. 
Which was both grave and old ; 

And after him a finikin lass, 

Did shine like the glistering gold. 

" This is not a fit match," quoth Robin Hood, 
" That you do seem to make here ; 

For since we are come into the church, 
The bride shall chuse her own dear." 

Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth. 

And blew blasts two or three ; 
When four-and-twenty yeomen bold 

Came leaping over the lea. 

And when they came into the church-yard. 

Marching all in a row. 
The first man was Allen-a-Dale, 

To give bold Robin his bow. 

" This is thy true love," Robin he said, 

" Young Allen, as I hear say ; 
And you shall be married this same time, 

Before we depart away." 

" That shall not be," the bishop he cried, 
" For thy word shall not stand ; 

They shall be three times asked in the church, 
As the law is of our land." 

Robin Hood pulled off the bishop's coat, 

And put it upon Little John ; 
" By the faith of my body," then Robin said, 

" This cloth doth make thee a man." 

When Little John went into the quire. 

The people began to laugh ; 
He asked them seven times into church, 

Lest three times should not be enough. 

" Who gives me this maid?" said Little John, 
Quoth Robin Hood, " That do I ; 

And he that takes her from Allen-a-Dale, 
Full dearly he shall her buy." 



206 POEMS OF LOVE. 


And then having ended this merry wedding, 


" Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart. 


The bride looked like a queen ; 


Praye tell me where you were borne." 


And so they returned to the merry green wood, 


" At Islington, kind sir," sayd shee. 


Amongst the leaves so green. 


" Where I have had many a scorne." 


Anonymous. 






" I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, 




tell me, whether you knowe 


Qtlie JBailifTs ?]Dattgl)tcr of Sslington. 


The bayliffe's daughter of Islington." 
" She is dead, sir, long agoe." 


There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, 




And he was a squire's son ; 


" If she be dead, then take my horse, 


He loved the bayliffe's daughter deare. 


My saddle and bridle also ; 


That lived in Islington. 


For I will into some farr countrye, 




Where noe man shall me knowe." 


Yet she was coye, and would not believe 




That he did love her soe, 


" staye, staye, thou goodlye youthe. 


Noe nor at any time would she 


She standeth by thy side ; 


Any countenance to him showe. 


She is here alive, she is not dead. 




And readye to be thy bride." 


But when his friendes did understand 




His fond and foolish minde, 


" farewell griefe, and welcome joye, 


They sent him up to faire London, 


Ten thousand times therefore ; 


Au apprentice for to binde. 


For nowe I have founde mine owne true love, 




Whom I thought I should never see more." 


And when he had been seven long yeares. 


Anonymous. 


And never his love could see, — 




" Many a teare have I shed for her sake, 




When she little thought of mee." 


Srutlj's Integrits- 


Then all the maids of Islington 


FIRST PART. 


Went forth to sport and playe. 


All but the bayliffe's daughter deare ; 


Over the mountains 


She secretly stole awaye. 


And under the waves, 




Over the fountains 


She pulled oS her gowne of greene, 


And under the graves. 


And put on ragged attire, 


Under floods which are deepest. 


And to faire London she would go 


Which do Neptune obey, 


Her true love to enquire. 


Over rocks which are steepest, 




Love will find out the way. 


And as she went along the high road, 




The weather being hot and drye. 


Where there is no place 


She sat her downe upon a green bank. 


For the glow-worm to lie. 


And her true love came riding bye. • 


Where there is no place 




For receipt of a fly. 


She started up with a colour soe redd. 


Where the gnat dares not venture. 


Catching hold of his bridle-reine ; 


Lest herself fast she lay. 


" One penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd. 


But if Love come he will enter. 


" Will ease me of much paine." 


And find out the way. 



TRUTH'S INTEGRITY. 207 


You may esteem him 


Make use of your inventions. 


A child of his force, 


Their fancies to betray. 


Or you may deem him 


To frustrate their intentions — 


A coward, which is worse, 


Love will find out the way. 


But if he whom Love doth honor 




Be concealed from the day. 


From court to the cottage. 


Set a thousand guards upon him — 


In bower and in hall, 


Love will find out the way. 


From the king unto the beggar, 




Love conquers all. 


Some think to lose him, 


Though ne'er so stout and lordly, 


Which is too unkind ; 


Strive or do what you may, 


And some do suppose him, 


Yet be ne'er so hardy, 


Poor heart, to be blind ; 


Love will find out the way. 


But if he were hidden, 




Do the best you may. 


Love hath power over princes. 


Blind Love, if you so call him, 


And greatest emperors ; 


Will find out the way. 


In any provinces. 




Such is Love's power 


Well may the eagle 


There is no resisting. 


Stoop down to the fist. 


But him to obey ; 


Or you may inveigle 


In spite of all contesting, 


The phoenix of the east ; 


Love will find out the way. 


With fear the tiger 's moved 




To give over their prey ; 


If that he were hidden. 


But never stop a lover — 


And all men that are 


He will find out the way. 


Were strictly forbidden 




That place to declare. 


From Dover to Berwick, 


Winds that have no abidings, 


And nations thereabout, 


Pitying their delay, 


Brave Guy, earl of Warwick, 


Would come and bring him tidings, 


That champion so stout, 


And direct him the way. 


With his warlike behavior. 




Through the world he did stray. 


If the earth should part him. 


To win his Phillis's favor — 


He would gallop it o'er ; 


Love will find out the way. 


If the seas should o'erthwai-t him. 




He would swim to the shore. 


In order next enters 


Should his love become a swallow, 


Bevis so brave, 




After adventures 

And policy brave, 
To see whom he desired, 


Through the air to stray, 

Love will lend wings to follow. 

And will find out the way. 


His Josian so gay. 


There is.no striving 


For whom his heart was fired — 


To cross his intent. 


Love will find out the way. 


There is no contriving 




His plots to prevent ; 


SECOND PART. 


But if once the message greet him. 


The Gordian knot 


That his tnie love doth stay. 


Which true lovers knit, 


If death should come and meet him, 


Undo it you cannot. 


Love will find out the way. 


Nor yet break it ; 


Anontmous. 



208 



P0E3IS OF LOVE. 



Qrijc £x\ax of <S)rbcrs ®ra2- 

It was a friar of orders gray, 
Walked forth to tell his beads ; 

And he met with a lady fair 
Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. 

" Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar ; 

I pray thee tell to me. 
If ever at yon holy shrine 

My true-love thou didst see." 

" And how should I know your true-love 

From many another one ? " 
" 0, by his cockle hat, and staff, 

And by his sandal shoon. 

" But chiefly by his face and mien, 

That were so fair to view ; 
His flaxen locks that sweetly curled. 

And eyes of lovely blue." 

" lady, he's dead and gone ! 

Lady, he's dead and gone ! 
And at his head a green grass turf. 

And at his heels a stone. 

" Within these holy cloisters long 

He languished, and he died. 
Lamenting of a lady's love. 

And 'plaining of her pride. 

" Here bore him barefaced on his bier 

Six proper youths and tall, 
And many a tear bedewed his grave 

Within yon kirk-yard wall." ' 

" And art thou dead, thou gentle youth ? 

And art thou dead and gone ? 
And didst thou die for love of me ? 

Break, cruel heart of stone ! " 

" Oh weep not, lady, weep not so ; 

Some ghostly comfort seek : 
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, 

Nor tears bedew thy cheek." • 

" Oh do not, do not, holy friar. 

My sorrow now reprove ; 
For I have lost the sweetest youth 

That e'er won lady's love. 



" And now, alas ! for thy sad loss 

I'll evermore weep and sigh : 
For thee I only wished to live, 

For thee I wish to die." 

" Weep no more, lady, weep no more, 

Thy sorrow is in vain ; 
For violets plucked, the sweetest showers 

Will ne'er make grow again. 

" Our joys as winged dreams do fly ; 

Why then should sorrow last ? 
Since grief but "aggravates thy loss, 

Grieve not for what is past." 

" Oh say not so, thou holy friar ; 

I pray thee, say not so ; 
For since my true-love died for me, 

'Tis meet my tears should flow. 

"And will he never come again? 

Will he ne'er come again ? 
Ah ! no, he is dead and laid in his grave : 

For ever to remain. 

" His cheek was redder than the rose ; 

The comeliest youth was he ! 
But he is dead and laid in his grave : 

Alas, and woe is me ! " 

" Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more. 

Men were deceivers ever : 
One foot on sea and one on land, 

To one thing constant never. 

" Hadst thou been fond, he had been false. 

And left thee sad and heavy ; 
For young men ever were fickle found. 

Since summer trees were leafy." 

" Now say not so, thou holy friar, 

I pray thee say not so ; 
My love he had the truest heart — 

Oh he was ever true ! 

" And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth. 

And didst thou die for me ? 
Then farewell home ; for evermore 

A pilgrim 1 will be. 



THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE. 



209 



" But first upon my true-loye's grave 

My weary limbs I'll lay, 
And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf 

That wraps his breathless clay." - 

" Yet stay, fair lady : rest awhile 

Beneath this cloister wall ; 
See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind. 

And drizzly raia doth laU." 

" Oh stay me not, thoii holy friar, 

Oh stay me not, I pray ; 
No drizzly rain that falls on me. 

Can wash my fault away." 

" Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, 

And dry those pearly tears ; 
For see beneath this gown of gray 

Thy own true-love appears. 

" Here forced by grief and hopeless love 

These holy weeds I sought ; 
And here, amid these lonely walls, 

To end my days I thought. 

" But haply, for my year of grace 

Is not yet passed away, 
Might I stiU hope to win thy love. 

No longer would I stay." 

" Now farewell grief, and welcome Joy 

Once more unto my heart ; 

For since I have found thee, lovely youth, 

"We never more will part." 

Thomas Percy. 



QTIlc Spanisl) iLobs's Cotie. 

Will you hear a Spanish lady. 

How she wooed an English man ? 
Garments gay, as rich as may be. 
Decked with jewels, had she on. 
Of a comely countenance and grace was she, 
And by birth and parentage of high degree. 

As his prisoner there he kept her. 
In his hands her life did lye ; 

Cupid's bands did tye her faster 
By the liking of an eye. 



i6 



In his courteous company was all her joy. 
To favour him in any thing she was not coy. 

At the last there came commandment 

For to set the ladies free. 
With their jewels still adorned. 
None to do them injury. 
" Alas ! " then said this lady gay, " full woe is me ; 
Oh let me still sustain this kind captivity ! 

" gallant captain, shew some pity 

To a ladye in distresse ; 
Leave me not within this city, 
For to dye in heavinesse. 
Thou hast set this present day my body free. 
But my heart in prison strong remains with thee." 

" How should'st thou, fair lady, love me. 
Whom thou know'st thy country's foe ? 
Thy fair wordes make me suspect thee : 
Serpents are where flowers grow." 
" All the evil I think to thee, most gracious knight, 
God grant unto myself the same may fully light. 

" Blessed be the time and season. 

That you came on Spanish ground ; 
If you may our foes be termed. 
Gentle foes we have you found : 
With our city, you have won our hearts each one ; 
Then to your country bear away that is your own." 

" Eest you still, most gallant lady ; 

Rest you still, and weep no more ; 
Of fair lovers there are plenty, 
Spain doth yield a wondrous store." 
" Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find. 
But Englishmen throughout the world are counted 
kind. 

" Leave me not unto a Spaniard, 

You alone enjoy my heart ; 
I am lovely, young, and tender. 
And so love is my desert. 
Still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest ; 
The wife of every Englishman is counted blest." 

" It would be a shame, fair lady, 

For to bear a woman hence ; 
English soldiers never carry 

Any such without offence." 



210 POEMS OF LOVE. 


" I will quickly change myself, if it be so, 


" Thus farewell, most gentle captain. 


And like a page I'll follow thee, where'er thou 


And farewell my heart's content ! 


go." 


Count not Spanish ladies wanton. 




Though to thee my love was bent : 


" I have neither gold nor silver 


Joy and true prosperity goe still with thee ! " 


To maintain thee in this case, 


" The like fall ever to thy share, most fair lady." 


And to travel, 'tis great charges. 


AHONTMOUS. 


As you know, in every place." 




"My chains and jewels every one shall be thine 




own, 


®i)C (®Iot)e. 


And eke ten thousand pounds in gold that lies 




unknown." 


(PETEE EONSARD loquitur.) 




" Heigho," yawned one day King Francis, 


" On the seas ai-e many dangers ; 


" Distance all value enhances ! 


Many storms do there arise, 


WTien a man 's busy, why, leisure 


Which will be to ladies dreadful, 


Strikes him as wonderful pleasure — 


And force tears from wat'ry eyes." 


'Faith, and at leisure once is he 1 


" WeU in worth I could endure extremity. 


Straightway he wants to be busy. 


For I could find in heart to lose my life for 


Here we've got peace ; and aghast I'm 


thee." 


Caught thinking war the true pastime ! 




Is there a reason in metre ? 


" Courteous lady, be contented ; 


Give us your speech. Master Peter ! " 


Here comes all that breeds the strife ; 


I who, if mortal dare say so. 


I in England have already 


Ne'er am at loss with my Naso, 


A sweet woman to my wife : 


" Sire," I replied, " joys prove cloudlets : 


I will not falsifie my vow for gold or gain. 


Men are the merest Ixioiis " — 


Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in 


Here the King whistled aloud, " Let's 


Spain." 


. . Heigho . . go look at our lions ! " 




Such are the sorrowful chances 


" Oh how happy is that woman 


If you talk fine to King Francis. 


That enjoys so true a friend ! 




Many days of joy God send you ! 


And so, to the court-yard proceeding. 


Of my suit I'll make an end : 


Our company, Francis was leading, 


On my knees I pardon crave for this offence. 


Increased by new followers tenfold 


Which love and true affection did first commence. 


Before he arrived at the penfold ; 




Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen 


" Commend me to thy loving lady ; 


At sunset the western horizon. 


Bear to her this chain of gold. 


And Sir De Lorge pressed 'mid the foremost 


And these bracelets for a token ; 


With the dame he professed to adore most — 


Grieving that I was so bold. 


Oh, what a face ! One by fits eyed 


All my jewels in like sort bear thou with thee. 


Her, and the horrible pitside ; 


For these are fitting for thy wife, and not for me. 


For the penfold surrounded a hollow 




Which led where the eyes scarce dared follow, 


" I will spend my days in prayer. 


And shelved to the chamber secluded 


Love and all her laws defie ; 


Where Bluebeard, the great lion brooded. 


In a nunnery wiU I shroud me. 


The King hailed his keeper, an Arab 


Far from other company : 


As glossy and black as a scarab, 


But ere my prayers have end, be sure of this. 


And bade him make sport and at once stir 


To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss. 


Up and out of his den the old monster. 



THE GLOVE. 211 ^ 


They opened a hole in the wire-work 


The sentence no sooner was uttered. 


Across it, and dropped there a fire-work, 


Than over the rails a glove fluttered. 


And fled ; one's heart's beating redoubled ; 


Pell close to the lion, and rested : 


A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled, 


The dame 't was, who flung it and jested 


The blackness and silence so utter, 


With life so, De Lorge had been wooing 


By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter. 


For months past ; he sate there pursuing 


Then earth in a sudden contortion 


His suit, weighing out with nonchalance 


Gave out to our gaze her abortion ! ^ 


Fine speeches like gold from a balance. 


Such a brute ! Were I friend Clement Marot 




(Whose experience of Nature 's but narrow, 


Sound the trumpet, no true knight 's a tar- 


And whose faculties move in no small mist 


rier ! 


When he versifies David the Psalmist) 


De Lorge made one leap at the barrier, 


I should study that brute to describe you 


Walked straight to the glove — while the lion 


Blum Juda Leonem de Tribu ! 


Ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on 


One's whole blood grew curdling and creepy 


The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire. 


To see the black mane, vast and heapy. 


And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir — 


The tail in the air stiff and straining. 


Picked it up, and as calmly retreated, 


The wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning. 


Leaped back where the lady was seated, 


As over the barrier which bounded 


And full in the face of its owner 


His platform and us who surrounded 


Flung the glove — 


The barrier, they reached and they rested 




On the space that might stand him in best 


" Your heart's queen, you dethrone her ? 


stead ; 


So should I" — cried the King — "'twas mere 


For who knew, he thought, what the amaze- 


vanity. 


ment. 


Not love, set that task to humanity ! " 


The eruption of clatter and blaze meant. 


Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing 


And if, in this minute of wonder, 


From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing. 


No outlet 'mid lightning and thunder. 




Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered. 


Not so I ; for I caught an expression 


The lion at last was delivered ? 


In her brow's undisturbed self-possession 


Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead I 


Amid the Court's seofling and merriment ; 


And you saw by the flash on his forehead. 


As if from no pleasing experiment 


By the hope in those eyes wide and steady. 


She rose, yet of pain not much heedful 


He was leagues in the desert already. 


So long as the process was needful ; 


Driving the flocks up the mountain. 


As if she had tried in a crucible, 


Or catlike couched hard by the fountain 


To what " speeches like gold " were reducible. 


To waylay the date-gathering negress : 


And, finding the finest prove copper. 


So guarded he entrance or egress. 


Felt the smoke in her face was but proper ; 


" How he stands ! " quoth the King ; " we may well 


To know what she had not to trust to, 


swear. 


Was worth all the ashes, and dust too. 


No novice, we 've won our spurs elsewhere. 


She went out 'mid hooting and laughter ; 


And so can afford the confession. 


Clement Marot stayed ; I followed after, 


We exercise wholesome discretion 


And asked, as a grace, what it all meant — 


In keeping aloof from his threshold ; 


If she wished not the rash deed's recallment 1 


Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold. 


" For I " — so 1 spoke — " am a poet : 


Their first would too pleasantly purloin 


Human nature behooves that I know it ! " 


The visitor's brisket or surloin : 




But who 's he would prove so foolhardy 1 


She told me, " Too long had I heard 


Not the best man of Marignane, pardie ! " 


Of the deed proved alone by the word : 



213 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



For my love — what De Lorge would not dare ! 
With my scorn — what De Lorge could com- 
pare ! 
And the endless descriptions of death 
He would brave when my lip formed a breath, 
I must reckon as braved, or, of course, 
Doubt his word — and moreover, perforce. 
For such gifts as no lady could spurn. 
Must offer my love in return. 
When I looked on your lion, it brought 
All the dangers at once to my thought, 
Encountered by all sorts of men. 
Before he was lodged in his den — 
From the poor slave whose club or bare hands 
Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands. 
With no King and no Court to applaud. 
By no shame, should he shrink, overawed. 
Yet to capture the creature made shift, 
That his rude boys might laugh at the gift. 
To the page who last leaped o'er the fence 
Of the pit, on no greater pretence 
Than to get back the bonnet he dropped, 
Lest his pay for a week should be stopped. 
So, wiser I judged it to make 
One trial what ' death for my sake ' 
Really meant, while the power was yet mine. 
Than to wait until time should define 
Such a phrase not so simply as 1, 
Who took it to mean just ' to die.' 
The blow a glove gives is but weak — 
Does the mark yet discolor my cheek ? 
But when the heart suffers a blow, 
Will the pain pass so soon, do you know % " 

I looked, as away she was sweeping. 

And saw a youth eagerly keeping 

As close as he dared to the doorway : 

No doubt that a noble should more weigh 

His life than befits a plebeian ; 

And yet, had our brute been Nemean — 

(I judge by a certain calm fervor 

The youth stepped with, forward to serve her) 

— He'd have scarce thought you did him the worst 
turn 

If you whispered, " Friend, what you'd get, first 
earn ! " 

And when, shortly after, she carried 

Her shame from the Court, and they mar- 
ried. 



To that marriage some happiness, maugre 
The voice of the Court, I dared augur. 

For De Lorge, he made women with men vie. 

Those in wonder and praise, these in envy ; • 

And in short stood so plain a head taller 

That he wooed and won . . How do you call her ? 

The beauty, that rose in the sequel 

To the King's love, who loved her a week well ; 

And 'twas noticed he never would honor 

De Lorge (who looked daggers upon her) 

With the easy commission of stretching 

His legs in the service, and fetching 

His wife, from her chamber, those straying 

Sad gloves she was always mislaying, 

While the King took the closet to chat in — 

But of course this adventure came pat in ; 

And never the King told the story. 

How bringing a glove brought such glory, 

But the wife smiled — " His nerves are grown 

firmer — 
Mine he brings now and utters no murmur ! " 

Venienti occurrite morho ! 

With which moral I di'op my theorbo. 

KoBBRT Browning. 



" Turn, gentle hermit of the dale. 
And guide my lonely way 

To where yon taper cheers the vale 
With hospitable ray. 

" For here forlorn and lost I tread, 
With fainting steps and slow ; 

Where wilds, immeasurably spread. 
Seem lengthening as I go." 

" Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, 

" To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 
For yonder faithless phantom flies 
. To lure thee to thy doom. 

" Here to the houseless child of want 

My door is open still ; 
And though my portion is but scant, 

I give it with good will. 



TEE EERMIT. 213 


" Then turn to-night, and freely share 


But nothing could a charm impart 


Whate'er my cell bestows ; 


To soothe the stranger's woe : 


My rushy couch and frugal fare, 


For grief was heavy at his heart, 


My blessing and repose. 


And tears began to flow. 


" No flocks that range the valley free 


His rising cares the hermit spied, 


To slaughter I condemn ! 


"With answering care oppressed : 


Taught by that power pities me, 


" And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, 


I learn to pity them ; 


" The sorrows of thy breast ? 


" But from the mountain's grassy side 


" From better habitations spumed, 


A guiltless feast I bring ; 


Reluctant dost thou rove? 


A scrip with herbs and fruit supplied, 


Or grieve for friendship unreturned. 


And water from the spring. 


Or unregarded love ? 


" Then, pilgrim, turn ; thy cares forego ; 


" Alas ! the joys that fortune brings 


All earth-born cares are wrong : 


Are trifling and decay; 


Man wants but little here below. 


And those who prize the paltry things. 


Nor wants that little long." 


More trifling still than they. 


Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 


" And what is friendship but a name, 


His gentle accents fell ; 


A charm that lulls to sleep ; 


The modest stranger lowly bends. 


A shade that follows wealth or fame, 


And follows to the cell. 


And leaves the wretch to weep ? 


Far in a wilderness obscure 


"And love is still an emptier sound. 


The lonely mansion lay ; 


The modern fair one's jest ; 


A refuge to the neighboring poor. 


On earth unseen, or only found 


And strangers led astray. 


To warm the turtle's nest. 


No stores beneath its humble thatch 


" For shame, fond youth ! thy sorrows hush. 


Required a master's care : 


And spurn the sex," he said ; 


The wicket, opening with a latch, 


But, while he spoke, a rising blush 


Received the harmless pair. 


His lovelorn guest betrayed. 


And now, when busy crowds retire 


Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, 


To take their evening rest. 


Swift mantling to the view ; 


The hermit trimmed his little fire, 


Lilie colors o'er the morning skies. 


And cheered his pensive guest ; 


As bright, as transient too. 


And spread his vegetable store. 


The bashful look, the rising breast. 


And gayly prest and smiled ; 


Alternate spread alarms ; 


And, skilled in legendary lore, 


The lovely stranger stands confest 


The lingering hours beguiled. 


A maid in all her charms. 


Around, in sympathetic mirth. 


" And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude. 


Its tricks the kitten tries ; 


A wretch forlorn," she cried ; 


The cricket chirrups on the hearth ; 


"Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude 


The crackling fagot flies. 


Where heaven and you reside. 



314 POEMS OF LOVE. 


" But let a maid thy pity share, 


" But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 


Whom love has taught to stray ; 


And well my life shall pay ; 


Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 


I'll seek the solitude he sought. 


Companion of her way. 


And stretch me where he lay. 


"My father lived beside the Tyne, 


" And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 


A wealthy lord was he ; 


I'll lay me down and die ; 


And all his wealth was marked as mine, 


'Twas so for me that Edwin did. 


He had but only me. 


And so for him wUl I." 


" To win me from his tender arms, 


" Forbid it heaven ! " the hermit cried, 


Unnumbered suitors came ; 


And clasped her to his breast ; 


Who praised me for imputed charms, 


The wondering fair one turned to chide, — 


And felt, or feigned, a flame. 


'Twas Edwin's self that prest. 


" Bach hour a mercenary crowd 


" Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 


With richest proffers strove : 


My charmer, turn to see 


Among the rest young Edwin bowed, 


Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 


But never talked of love. 


Restored to love and thee. 


" In humble, simplest habit clad, 


" Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 


No wealth or power had he ; 


And every care resign ; 


Wisdom and worth were all he had. 


And shall we never, never part, 


But these were all to me. 


My life, my all that's mine ? 


" And when beside me in the dale 


" No, never from this hour to part. 


He carolled lays of love, 


We'll live and love so ti-ue ; 


His breath lent fragrance to the gale. 


The sigh that rends thy constant heart 


And music to the grove. 


Shall break thy Edwin's too." 




OlIVEK GOIDSMITH. 


" The blossom opening to the day, 




The dews of heaven refined. 




Could nought of purity display 
To emulate his mind. 


^\)Z Cflirb o' Qtock|Jcn. 




The laird o' Cockpen he's proud and he's great. 


" The dew, the blossoms of the tree, 


His mind is ta'en up with the things o' the state ; 


With charms inconstant shine ; 


He wanted a wife his braw house to keep. 


Their charms were his, but, woe to me ! 


But favor wi' wooin' was fashions to seek. 


Their constancy was mine. 






Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell. 


" For stUl I tried each fickle art. 


At his table-head he thought she'd look well; 


Importunate and vain ; 


M'Lish's ae daiighter o' Claverse-ha' Lee, 


And while his passion touched my heart. 


A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree. 


I triumphed in his pain. » 






His wig was weel pouthered, and as gude as 


" Till, quite dejected with my scorn, 


new; 


He left me to my pride ; 


His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue ; 


And sought a solitude forlorn. 


He put on a ring, a sword, and cocked hat, 


In secret, where he died. 


And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that ? 



SWEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL TO BLACK-EYED SUSAN. 



215 



He took the gray mare, and rade eannily — 
And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee : 
" 'Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben, 
She's wanted to speak to the Laird o' Cock- 
pen." 

Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine : 
" And what brings the Laird at sic a like time f " 
She put afE her apron, and on her silk gown, 
Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' 
down. 

And when she cam' ben, he bowed fu' low, 
And what was his errand he soon let her know ; 
Amazed was the Laird when the lady said 

"Nal" 
And wi' a laigh curtsey she turned awa'. 

Dumbfoundered he was, nae sigh did he gie ; 

He mounted his mare, he rade cannUy ; 

And aften he thought, as he gaed through the 

glen, 
She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen. 

And now that the Laird his exit had made. 
Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had 

said; 
"Oh! for ane I'll get better, it's waur I'll get 

ten, 
I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen." 

Next time that the Laird and the lady were seen, 
They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the 

green. 
Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen, 
But as yet there's nae chickens appeared at Cock- 
pen. 

Ladt Naiknb. 



Sroect tHiUiam's SaxzxatW to jBlark- 
z^zb Susan. 

All in the Downs the fl^et was moored, 
The streamers waving in the wind, 

When black-eyed Susan came aboard. 
Oh ! where shall I my true-love find 1 

Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true. 

If my sweet William sails among your crew. 



William, who high upon the yard 

Rocked with the billows to and fro. 
Soon as her well-known voice he heard. 

He sighed and cast his eyes below : 
The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands. 
And, quick as lightning, on the deck he stands. 

So the sweet lark, high poised in air. 

Shuts close his pinions to his breast 
If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, 

And drops at once into her nest. 
The noblest captain in the British fleet 
Might envy William's Up those kisses sweet. 

Susan, Susan, lovely dear, 

My vows shall ever true remain ; 
Let me kiss oS. that falling tear ; 

We only part to meet again. 
Change, as ye list, ye winds ; my heart shall be 
The faithful compass that stUl points to thee. 

Believe not what the landmen say. 
Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind : 

They'll tell thee, sailors, when away, 
In every port a mistress find : 

Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so. 

For thou art present whereso'er I go. 

If to fair India's coast we sail, 

Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright. 

Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, 
Thy skin is ivory so white. 

Thus every beauteous object that I view, 

Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. 

Though battle call me from thy arms. 

Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; 
Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms, 

William shall to his dear return. 
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly. 
Lest precious tears shouldtdrop from Susan's eye. 

The boatswain gave the dreadful word. 
The sails their swelling bosoms spread ; 

No longer must she stay aboard ; 

They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. 

Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land : 

Adieu ! she cries ; and waved her lily hand. 

John Gat. 



216 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



When Sol did cast no light, being darkened over, 
And the dark time of night did the skies cover, 
Running a river by, where were ships sailing, 
A maid most fair I spied, crying and wailing. 

Unto this maid I stept, asking what grieved her ; 
She answered me and wept, fates had deceived her ; 
My love is prest, quoth she, to cross the ocean — 
Proud waves to make the ship ever in motion. 

We loved seven years and more, both being sure, 
But I am left on shore, grief to endure. 
He promised back to turn, if life was spared him ; 
With grief 1 daily mourn death hath debarred him. 

Straight a brisk lad she spied, made her admire, 
A present she received pleased her desire. 
Is my love safe, quoth she, will he come near me ? 
The young man answer made, Virgin, pray hear me. 

Under one banner bright, for England's glory, 
Your love and 1 did fight — mark well my story ; 
By an unhappy shot we two were parted ; 
His death's wound then he got, though valiant- 
hearted. 

All this I witness can, for I stood by him, 
For courage, I must say, none did outvie him ; 
He still would foremost be, striving for honor ; 
But fortune is a cheat, — ^vengeance upon her ! 

But ere he was quite dead, or his heart broken. 
To me these words he said. Pray give this token 
To my love, for there is than she no fairer ; 
Tell her she must be kind and love the bearer. 

Intombed he now doth lye in stately manner, 
'Cause he fought valiantly for love and honor. 
That right he had in you, to me he gave it ; 
Now since it is my due, pray let me have it. 

♦ 

She, raging, flung away like one distracted, 
Not knowing what to say, nor what she acted. 
So last she cursed her fate, and showed her anger. 
Saying, Friend, you come too late, I'll have no 
stranger. 



To your own house return, I am best pleased 
Here for my love to mourn, since he's deceased. 
In sable weeds I'll go, let who will jeer me ; 
Since death has served me so, none shall come near 
me. 

The chaste Penelope mourned for Ulysses ; 

I have more grief than she, robbed of my blisses. 

I'll ne'er love man again, therefore pray hear 

me; 
I'll slight you with disdain if you come near me. 

I know he loved me well, for when we parted. 
None did in grief excel, — both were true-hearted. 
Those promises we made ne'er shaU be broken ; 
Those words that then he said ne'er shall be 
spoken. 

He hearing what she said, made his love stronger ; 
Off his disguise he laid, and staid no longer. 
When her dear love she knew, in wanton fashion, 
Into his arms she flew, — such is love's passion ! 

He asked her how she liked his counterfeiting, 
Whether she was well pleased with such like greet- 
ing? 
You are well versed, quoth she, in several speeches, 
Could you coin money so, you might get riches. 

happy gale of wind that waft thee over ! 

May heaven preserve that ship that brought my 
lover ! 

Come kiss me now, my sweet, true love's no slan- 
der; 

Thou shalt my Hero be, I thy Leander. 

Dido of Carthage queen loved stout ^neas. 
But my true love is found more true than he was. 
Venus ne'er fonder was of younger Adonis, 
Than I will be of thee, since thy love her own is. 

Then hand in hand they walk with mirth and 
pleasure. 

They laugh, they kiss, they talk— love knows no 
measure. 

Now both do sit and sing— but she sings clear- 
est; 

Like nightingale in spring. Welcome my dearest ! 

Anonymous. 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 



217 



Wc)z (£oe of St. ^^gnes. 

St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass. 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
Numb were the beadsman's fingers while he told 
His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
Like pious incense from a censer old. 
Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death. 
Past the sweet virgin's picture, while his prayer he 
saith. 

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; 

Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees. 

And back returneth, meagre, bai'efoot, wan. 

Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees ; 

The sculptured dead on each side seem to freeze, 

Emprisoned in black, purgatorial rails ; 

Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, 

He passed by ; and his weak spirit fails 

To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 

Northward he turneth through a little door. 
And scarce three steps, ere music's golden tongue 
Flattered to tears this aged man and poor ; 
But no — already had his death-bell rung ; 
The joys of all his life were said and sung ; 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve ; 
Another way he went, and soon among 
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve. 
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. 

That ancient beadsman heard the prelude soft ; 
And so it chanced, for many a door was wide 
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide ; 
The level chambers, ready with their pride, 
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests ; 
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed. 
Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, 
With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise on 
their breasts. 

At length burst in the argent revelry. 
With plume, tiara, and all rich array. 
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 
The brain, new-stuffed, in youth, with triumphs 
gay 



Of old romance. These let us wish away ; 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there. 
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, 
On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly care. 
As she had heard old dames full many times de- 
clare. 

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
Young virgins might have visions of delight, 
And soft adorings from their loves receive 
Upon the honeyed middle of the night, 
If ceremonies due they did aright ; 
As, supperless to bed they must retire. 
And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; 
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
Of heaven with upward eyes for all that they de- 
sire. 

Pull of this whim was thoughtful Madeline ; 
The music, yearning like a god in pain, 
She scarcely heard ; her maiden eyes divine, 
Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
Pass by — she heeded not at all ; in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 
And back retired ; not cooled by high disdain, 
But she saw not ; her heart was otherwhere ; 
She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the 
year. 

She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short ; 
The hallowed hour was near at hand ; she sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort 
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
Hoodwinked with fairy fancy ; all amort 
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn. 
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 

So, purposing each moment to retire. 
She lingered still. Meantime, across the moors. 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire 
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors. 
Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline ; 
But for one moment in the tedious hours. 
That he might gaze and worship all unseen ; 
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such 
things have been. 



218 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



He ventures in ; let no buzzed whisper tell ; 
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
Will storm his heart, love's feverous citadel ; 
For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, 
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. 
Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
Against his lineage ; not one breast affords 
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. 
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 

Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came, 
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. 
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
The sound of merriment and chorus bland. 
He startled her ; but soon she knew his face. 
And grasped his fingers in her palsied hand. 
Saying, " Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from this 

place ; 
They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty 



" Get hence ! get hence ! there's dwarfish Hilde- 

brand ; 
He had a fever late, and in the fit 
He cursed thee and thine, both house and land ; 
Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit 
More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me ! flit ! 
Flit like a ghost away ! " — " Ah, gossip dear. 
We're safe enough ; here in this arm-chair sit, 
And tell me how " — " Good saints, not here, not 

here ; 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy 

bier." ■ 

He followed through a lowly arched way. 
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume ; 
And as she muttered " Well-a — well-a-day ! " 
He found him in a little moonlight room. 
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
" Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
" Oh tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
Which none but secret sisterhood may see, 
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving,piously." 

"St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve — 
Yet men will murder upon holy days ; 
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 
And be liege-lord of all the elves and fays. 



To venture so. It fills me with amaze 
To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! 
God's help ! my lady fair the conjurer plays 
This very night ; good angels her deceive ! 
But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to 
grieve." 

Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, 
While Porphyro upon her face doth look, 
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-book, 
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told 
His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could brook 
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, 
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, 
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 
Made purple riot ; then doth he propose 
A stratagem, that makes the beldame start : 
" A cruel man and impious thou art ! 
Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep and dream 
Alone with her good angels, far apart 
From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! I deem 
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst 
seem." 

" I will not harm her, by all saints I swear ! " 
Quoth Porphyro ; " Oh may I ne'er find grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace. 
Or look with ruffian passion in her face ; 
Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
Or I will, even in a moment's space, 
Awake, with horrid shout my foemen's ears. 
And beard them, though they be more fanged 
than wolves and bears." 

" Ah ! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul ? 
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard thing. 
Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll ; 
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, 
Were never missed." Thus plaining, doth she 

bring 
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; 
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing. 
That Angela gives promise she will do 
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. 



i 



TEE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 



219 



Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
Him in a closet, of such privacy 
That he might see her beauty unespied, 
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride ; 
While legioned fairies paced the coverlet, 
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
Never on such a night have lovers met. 
Since Merlin paid his demon all the monstrous 
debt. 

" It shall be as thou wishest," said the dame ; 
" All cates and dainties shall be stored there 
Quickly on this feast-night ; by the tambour frame 
Her own lute thou wilt see ; no time to spare, 
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience kneel in prayer 
The whOe. Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed. 
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." 

So saying she hobbled off with busy fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd ; 
The dame return'd and whisper'd in his ear 
To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast 
Prom fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste ; 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her 
brain. 

Her faltering hand upon the balustrade. 
Old Angela was feeling for the stair. 
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid. 
Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware ; 
With silver taper's light, and pious care. 
She turned, and down the aged gossip led 
To a safe level matting. Now prepare. 
Young PorphjTO, for gazing on that bed ! 
She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove frayed 
and fled. 

Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died; 
She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions wide ; 
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide ! 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble. 
Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 



As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell. 

A casement high and triple-arched there was. 
All garlanded with carven imageries 
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass. 
And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, 
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings ; 
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries. 
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens 
and kings. 

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon. 
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, 
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ; 
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 
And on her silver cross soft amethyst. 
And on her hair a glory, like a saint ; 
She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, 
Save wings, for heaven. Porphyro grew faint. 
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal 
taint. 

Anon his heart revives ; her vespers done. 

Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; 

Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; 

Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees 

Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees ; 

Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, 

Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, 

In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed. 

But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest. 
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay. 
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed 
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; 
Flown like a thought, until the morrow-day ; 
Blissfully havened both from joy and pain ; 
Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims pray ; 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. 
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 

Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, 
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress. 
And listened to her breathing, if it chanced 
To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; 



220 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, 
And breathed himself ; then from the closet 

crept. 
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 
And over the hushed carpet, silent, stept. 
And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo! — how 

fast she slept. 

Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon 
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon 
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : 
Oh for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion. 
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone ; 
The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is 
gone. 

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, 
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered ; 
While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; 
With jellies soother than the creamy curd, 
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ; 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferred 
From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one. 
From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon. 

These delicates he heaped with glowing hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreathed silver. Sumptuous they stand 
In the retired quiet of the night, 
Filling the chilly room with perfume light. 
" And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! 
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite ; 
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, 
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth 
ache." 

Thus whispering, his warm, imnerved arm 
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
By the dusk curtains ; 'twas a midnight charm 
Impossible to melt as iced stream : « 

The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; 
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies ; 
It seemed he never, never could redeem 
From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed phantasies. 



Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, 
Tumultuous, and, in chords that tenderest be, 
He played an ancient ditty, long since mute. 
In Provence called " La belle dame sans mercy ; " 
Close to her ear touching the melody ; 
Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan ; 
He ceased — she panted qiiick — and suddenly 
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone ; 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured 
stone. 

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep. 
There was a painful change, that nigh expelled 
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep ; 
At which fair Madeline began to weep. 
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; 
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ; 
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye. 
Fearing to move or speak, she looked so dream- 
ingly. 

" Ah, Porphyro ! " said she, " but even now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, 
Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; 
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear : 
How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and 

drear ! 
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear ! 
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe. 
For if thou diest, my love, I know not where to 



Beyond a mortal man impassioned far 
At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 
Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star 
Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; 
Into her dream he melted as the rose 
Blendeth its odor with the violet, — 
Solution sweet ; meantime the frost-wind blows 
Like love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet 
Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' moon hath 
set. 

'Tis dark ; quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet ; 
" This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline ! " 
'Tis dark ; the iced gusts still rave and beat : 
" No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! 



THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA. 



231 



Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. 
Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither bring ? 
I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, 
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing ; 
A dove forlorn and lost, with sick, impruned 
wing." 

" My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! 

Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 

Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil 

dyed? 
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
After so many hours of toil and quest, 
A famished pilgrim, saved by miracle. 
Though I have found, I wiU not rob thy nest. 
Saving of thy sweet self ; if thou think'st well 
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 

" Hark ! 'tis an elfin storm from fairy land, 
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
Arise, arise ! the morning is at hand ; 
The bloated wassailers will never heed. 
Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; 
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
Drowned aU in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. 
Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be. 
For o'er the southern moors I have a' home for 
thee." 

She hurried at his words, beset with fears. 
For there were sleeping dragons all around. 
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears. 
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. 
In all the house was heard no human sound. 
A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each door ; 
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound. 
Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar ; 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ! 
Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, 
Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl. 
With a huge empty flagon by his side ; 
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, 
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns ; 
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide ; 
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones ; 
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges 
groans. 



And they are gone ! ay, ages long ago 
These lovers fled away into the storm. 
That night the baron dreamt of many a woe. 
And all his warrior -guests, with shade and 

form 
Of witch, and demon, and large cofiin-worm, 
Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old 
Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face deform ; 
The beadsman, after thousand aves told. 
For aye unsought -for slept among his ashes 

cold. 

John Keats. 



^\\z tribal of ^niralla. 

" Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion 

down; 
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the 

town ! 
From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are 

flowing. 
And the lovely lute doth speak between the trum- 
pets' lordly blowing. 
And banners bright from lattice light are waving 

everywhere. 
And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom 

floats proudly in the air. 
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion 

down ; 
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the 

town ! 

" Arise, arise, Xarifa ! I see Andalla's face — 

He bends him to the people with a calm and 

princely grace ; 
Through all the land of Xeres and banks of Guadal- 

quiver 
Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so brave and 

lovely never. 
Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of purple 

mixed with white, 
I guess 'twas wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed 

to-night. 
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion 

down; 
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the 

town! 



222 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



" What aileth thee, Xarifa — what makes thine eyes 

look down ? 
Why stay ye from the window far, nca- gaze with 

all the town ? 
I've heard you say on many a day, and sure you 

said the truth, 
Andalla rides without a peer among all Granada's 

youth : 
Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse 

doth go 
Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and 

slow: 
Then rise — Oh ! rise, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion 

down; 
Unseen here through the lattice, you may gaze with 

all the town ! " 

The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down, 
Nor came she to the window to gaze with all the 

town; 
But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain her 

fingers strove. 
And though her needle pressed the silk, no flower 

Xarifa wove ; 
One bonny rose-bud she had traced before the noise 

drew nigh ; 
That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow dropping from 

her eye. 
"No — no!" she sighs — "bid me not rise, nor lay 

my cushion down, 
To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing town ! " 

"Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your cushion 

down? 
Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the gazing 

town? 
Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and how the 

people cry ; 
He stops at Zara's palace-gate — why sit ye still — 

0, why?" 
— " At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate ; in him shall 

I discover 
The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with 

tears, and was my lover ? 
I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay 'my cushion 

down. 
To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing 

town ! " 

Anonymous. (Spanish.) 
Translation of John Gibson Lockhakt. 



THE SLEEPING PALACE. 

The varying year with blade and sheaf 

Clothes and re-clothes the happy plains ; 
Here rests the sap within the leaf ; 

Here stays the blood along the veins. 
Faint shadows, vapors lightly curled, 

Faint murmurs from the meadows come, 
Like hints and echoes of the world 

To spu-its folded in the womb. 

Soft lustre bathes the range of urns 

On every slanting terrace-lawn, 
The fountain to his place returns. 

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. 
Here droops the banner on the tower. 

On the hall-hearths the festal fires, 
The peacock in his laurel bower, 

The parrot in his gilded wires. 

Eoof -haunting martins warm their eggs ; 

In these, in those the life is stayed. 
The mantles from the golden pegs 

Droop sleepily. No sound is made, 
Not even of a gnat that sings. 

More Like a picture seemeth all, 
Than those old portraits of old kings 

That watch the sleepers from the wall. 

Here sits the butler with a flask 

Between his knees, half-drained ; and there 
The wrinkled steward at his task. 

The maid of honor blooming fair : 
The page has caught her hand in his ; 

Her lips are severed as to speak ; 
His own are pouted to a kiss ; 

The blush is fixed upon her cheek. 

TUl all the hundred summers pass. 

The beams, that through the oriel shine. 
Make prisms in every carven glass, 

And beaker brimmed with noble wine. 
Each baron at the banquet sleeps ; 

Grave faces gathered in a ring. 
His state the king reposing keeps : 

He must have been a jovial king. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 223 


All round a hedge upshoots, and shows 


THE ARRIVAL. 


At distance like a little wood ; 




Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes. 


All precious things, discovered late. 


And grapes with bunches red as blood : 


To those that seek them issue forth ; 


All creeping plants, a wall of green 


For love in sequel works with fate. 


Close-matted, burr and brake and briar. 


And draws the veil from hidden worth. 


And glimpsing over these, just seen. 


He travels far from other skies. 


High up, the topmost palace spire. 


His mantle glitters on the rocks — 




A fairy prince, with joyful eyes. 


When will the hundred summers die. 


And lighter-footed than the fox. 


And thought and time be born again, 




And newer knowledge, drawing nigh. 


The bodies and the bones of those 


Bring truth that sways the soul of men ? 


That strove in other days to pass, 


Here all things in their place remain, 


Are withered in the thorny close. 


As all were ordered, ages since. 


Or scattered blanching in the grass. . 


Come care and pleasure, hope and pain, 


He gazes on the silent dead : 


And bring the fated fairy prince ! 


" They perished in their daring deeds." 




This proverb flashes through his head : 




" The many fail ; the one succeeds." 


THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 




Year after year unto her feet. 


He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks. 


She lying on her couch alone. 


He breaks the hedge ; he enters there ; 


Across the purpled coverlet. 


The color flies into his cheeks ; 


The maiden's jet-black hair has grown. 


He trusts to light on something fair ; 


On either side her tranced form 


For all his life the charm did talk 


Forth streaming from a braid of, pearl : 


About his path, and hover near 


The slumb'rous light is rich and warm. 


With words of promise in his walk, 


And moves not on the rounded curl. 


And whispered voices in his ear. 


The silk star-broidered coverlid 


More close and close his footsteps wind ; 


Unto her limbs itself doth mould. 


The magic music in his heart 


Languidly ever ; and amid 


Beats quick and quicker, till he find 


Her full black ringlets, downward rolled. 


The quiet chamber far apart. 


Glows forth each softly-shadowed arm, 


His spirit flutters like a lark, 


With bracelets of the diamond bright. 


He stoops, to kiss her, on his knee : 


Her constant beauty doth inform 


" Love, if thy tresses be so dark, 


StUlness with love, and day with light. 


How dark those hidden eyes must be ! " 


She sleeps ; her breathings are not heard 


THE REVIVAL. 


In palace chambers far apart. 




The fragrant tresses are not stirred 


A TOUCH, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. 


That lie upon her charmed heart. 


There rose a noise of striking clocks ; 


She sleeps ; on either hand upswells 


And feet that ran, and doors that clapt. 


The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest ; 


And barking dogs, and crowing cocks ; 


She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 


A f uUer light illumined all ; 


A perfect form in perfect rest. 


A breeze through all the garden swept ; 




A sudden hubbub shook the hall ; 




And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 



224 POEMS OF LOVE. 


The hedge broke in, the banner blew, 


And o'er them many a flowing range 


The butler drank, the steward scrawled, 


Of vapor buoyed the crescent bark ; 


The fire shot up, the martin flew. 


And, rapt through many a rosy change. 


The parrot screamed, the peacock squalled ; 


The twilight died into the dark. 


The maid and page renewed their strife ; 




The palace banged, and buzzed and clackt ; 


" A hundred summers ! can it be ? 


And all the long-pent stream of life 
Dashed downward in a cataract. 


And whither goest thou, tell me where ! " 
" Oh seek my father's court with me. 




For there are greater wonders there." 


And last with these the king awoke. 


And o'er the hills, and far away 


And in his chair himself upreared. 


Beyond their utmost purple rim. 


And yawned, and rubbed his face, and spoke : 


Beyond the night, across the day. 


" By holy rood, a royal beard ! 


Through aU the world she followed him. 


How say you ? we have slept, my lords ; 


Alfred Tennyson. 


My beard has grown into my lap." 




The barons swore, with many words, 




'Twas but an after-dinner's nap. 


Cotjc. 


" Pardy ! " returned the king, " but still 


All thoughts, all passions, all delights. 


My joints are something stiff or so. 


Whatever stirs this mortal frame. 


My lord, and shall we pass the bill 


All are but ministers of love. 


I mentioned half an hour ago ? " 


And feed his sacred flame. 


The chancellor, sedate and vain. 




In courteous words returned reply ; 


Oft in my waking dreams do I 


But dallied with his golden chain. 


Live o'er again that happy hour. 


And, smiling, put the question by. 


When midway on the mount I lay. 




Beside the ruined tower. 


THE DEPARTURE. 


The moonshine stealing o'er the scene. 


And on her lover's arm she leant, 


Had blended with the lights of eve ; 


And round her waist she felt it fold ; 


And she was there, my hope, my joy. 


And far across the hills they went 


My own dear Genevieve ! 


In that new world which is the old. 




Across the hUls, and far away 


She leaned against the armed man, 


Beyond their utmost purple rim. 


The statue of the armed knight ; 


And deep into the dying day. 


She stood and listened to my lay, 


The happy princess followed him. 


Amid the lingering light. 


" I'd sleep another hundred years, 


Few sorrows hath she of her own. 


love, for such another kiss ! " 


My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 


" Oh wake for ever, love, " she hears. 


She loves me best whene'er I sing 


" love, 'twas such as this and this." 


The songs that make her grieve. 


And o'er them many a sliding star. 


I played a soft and doleful air ; 


And many a merry wind was borne. 


I sang an old and moving story — 


Arfd, streamed through many a golden bar, 


An old, rude song, that suited weU 


The twilight melted into morn. • 


That ruin wild and hoary. 


" eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " 


She listened with a flitting blush. 


" happy sleep, that lightly fled ! " 


With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 


" happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! " 


For well she knew I could not choose 


" love, thy kiss would wake the dead ! " 


But gaze upon her face. 



LOVE. 



225 



I told her of the knight that wore 

Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
And that for ten long years he wooed 
The lady of the land. 

I told her how he pined — and ah ! 

The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another's love, 
Interpreted my own. 

She listened with a flitting blush. 

With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face. 

But when I told the cruel scorn 

That crazed that bold and lovely knight, 
And that he crossed the mountain-woods. 
Nor rested day nor night ; 

That sometimes from the savage den, 

And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, 

There came and looked him in the face 

An angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a fiend. 
This miserable knight ; 

And that, unknowing what he did. 

He leaped amid a murderous band. 
And saved from outrage worse than death, 
The lady of the land ; 

And how she wept and clasped his knees ; 

And how ^he tended him in vain. 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; 

And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
And how his madness went away, 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay ; 

His dying words — but when I reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity. 

All impulses of soul and sense 

Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; 
The music and the doleful tale. 
The rich and balmy eve ; 



^7 



And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 

An undistinguishable throng. 
And gentle wishes long subdued. 
Subdued and cherished long. 

She wept with pity and delight. 

She blushed with love and virgin shame ; 
And like the murmur of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved ; she stepped aside, 

As conscious of my look she stept. 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye, 
She fled to me and wept. 

She half inclosed me with her arms ; 

She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
And bending back her head, looked up. 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly love, and partly fear, 

And partly 'twas a bashful art. 

That I might rather feel, than see. 

The swelling of her heart. 

I calmed her fears, and she was calm, 

And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

My bright and beauteous bride. 

Samuel Tatlor Coleridge. 



para's ©ar-rings. 

My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they've dropped into 
the well. 

And what to say to Mu9a, I cannot, cannot 
tell — 

'Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albu- 
harez' daughter : — 

The well is deep — far down they lie, beneath the 
cold blue water ; 

To me did Mu^a give them, when he spake his sad 
fareweU, 

And what to say when he comes back, alas ! I can- 
not tell. 

My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! — they were pearls in 

silver set. 
That, when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should 

him forget ; 



226 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



That I ne'er to other tongues should list, nor smile 
on other's tale, 

But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those 
ear-rings pale. 

When he comes back, and hears that I have 
di'opped them in the well. 

Oh ! what will Muga think of me ? — I cannot, can- 
not tell ! 

My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! — he '11 say they 
should have been. 

Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glitter- 
ing sheen. 

Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear, 

Changing to the changing light, with radiance 
insincere ; 

That changeful mind unchanging gems are not be- 
fitting well, 

Thus will he think — and what to say, alas I cannot 
tell. 

He'll think, when I to market went I loitered by 

the way ; 
He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads 

might say ; 
He'll think some other lover's hand, among my 

tresses noosed, 
From the ears where he had placed them my rings 

of pearl unloosed ; 
He'll think when 1 was sporting so beside his 

marble well 
My pearls fell in — and what to say, alas ! 1 cannot 

tell. 

He'll say, I am a woman, and we are all the same ; 
He'll say, I loved, when he was here to whisper of 

his flame — 
But when he went to Tunis, my virgin troth had 

broken, 
And thought no more of Mu^a, and cared not for 

his token. 
My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! oh ! luckless, luckless 

weU, — 
For what to say to Muga — alas ! I canpot tell. 

I'll tell the truth to Muga — and I hope he will 

believe — 
That 1 thought of him at morning and thought of 

him at eve ; 



That, musing on my lover, when down the sun was 

gone, 
His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain 

all alone ; 
And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my 

hand they fell, 
And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie 

in the weU. 

Anontmotts. (Spanisli.) 
Translation of John Gibson LocKriART. 



A EOMANCE OF THE AGE, 

A poet writes to his friend. Place — A room in Wycombe 
Sail. Time— Late in the evening. 

Dear my friend and fellow-student, I would lean 
my spirit o'er you ! 
Down the purple of this chamber, tears should 
scarcely run at will. 
I am humbled who was humble. Friend, I bow 
my head before you. 
You should lead me to my peasants, but their 
faces are too still. 

There's a lady, an earl's daughter, she is proud 
and she is noble, 
And she treads the crimson carpet, and she 
breathes the perfumed air, 
And a kingly blood sends glances up her princely 
eye to trouble. 
And the shadow of a monarch's crovm is softened 
in her hair. 

She has halls among the woodlands, she has castles 
by the breakers, 
She has farms and she has manors, she can threat- 
en and command ; 
And the palpitating engines snort in steam across 
her acres, 
As they mark upon the blasted heaven the 
measure of her land. 

There are none of England's daughters who can 
show a prouder presence ; 
Upon princely suitors praying she has looked in 
her disdain. 



LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 



237 



She was sprung of English nobles, I was born of 
English peasants ; 
What was / that I should love her — save for 
competence to pain ? 

I was only a poor poet, made for singing at her 
casement, 
As the finches or the thrushes, while she thought 
of other things. 
Oh, she walked so high above me, she appeared to 
my abasement, 
In her lovely silken murmur, like an angel clad in 
wings ! 

Many vassals bow before her as her carriage sweeps 
their door-ways : 
She has blest their little children, as a priest or 
queen were she. 
Far too tender, or too cruel far, her smile upon the 
poor was, 
For I thought it was the same smile which she 
used to smile on me. 

She has voters in the commons, she has lovers in 
the palace ; 
And of all the fair court ladies, few have jewels 
half as fine. 
Oft the prince has named her beauty 'twixt the red 
wine and the chalice. 
Oh, and what was I to love her? my beloved, 
my Geraldine ! 

Yet I could not choose but love her. I was born 
to poet-uses, 
To love all things set above me, all of good and 
all of fair. 
Nymphs of mountain, not of valley, we are wont 
to call the Muses ; 
And in nympholeptic climbing, poets pass from 
mount to star. 

And because I was a poet, and because the public 
praised me 
With a critical deduction for the modern writer's 
fault, 
I could sit at rich men's tables — though the courte- 
sies that raised me. 
Still suggested clear between us the pale spec- 
trum of the salt. 



And they praised me in her presence — " Will your 
book appear this summer ? " 
Then returning to each other — "Yes, our plans 
are for the moors." 
Then with whisper dropped behind me — "There 
he is ! the latest comer ! 
Oh, she only likes his verses ! what is over, she 
endures. 

" Quite low-born ! self-educated ! somewhat gifted 
though by nature — 
And we make a point of asldng him — of being 
very kind. 
You may speak, he does not hear you ! and be- 
sides he write no satire — 
All the serpents kept by charmers leave their 
natural sting behind." 

I grew scornf uUer, grew colder, as I stood up there 
among them. 
Till as frost intense will burn you, the cold scorn- 
ing scorched my brow — 
When a sudden silver speaking, gravely cadenced, 
overrung them, 
And a sudden silken stirring touched my inner 
nature through. 

I looked upward and beheld her. With a calm and 
regnant spirit. 
Slowly round she swept her eyelids, and said 
clear before them all : 
" Have you such superfluous honor, sir, that able 
to confer it 
You will come down, Mister Bertram, as my 
guest to Wycombe Hall ? " 

Here she paused — she had been paler at the first 
word of her speaking. 
But because a silence followed it, blushed some- 
what, as for shame ; 
Then, as scorning her own feeling, resumed calmly 
— " I am seeking 
More distinction than these gentlemen think 
worthy of my claim. 

" Ne'ertheless, you see, I seek it — not because 1 am 
a woman " 
(Here her smile sprang like a fountain, and, so, 
overflowed her mouth). 



228 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



" But because my woods in Sussex have some pur- 
ple shades at gloaming 
Which are worthy of a king in state, or poet in his 
youth. 

" I invite you, Mister Bertram, to no scene for 
wordly speeches — 
Sir, I scarce should dare — but only where God 
asked the thrushes first — 
And if you will sing beside them, in the covert of 
my beeches, 
I will thank you for the woodlands, ... for the 
human world, at worst." 

Then she smiled around right childly, then she 
gazed around right queenly, 
And I bowed — I could not answer ; alternated 
light and gloom — 
While as one who quells the lions, with a steady 
eye serenely, 
She, with level fronting eyelids, passed out state- 
ly from the room. 

Oh, the blessed woods of Sussex, I can hear them 
still around me. 
With their leafy tide of greenery still rippling 
up the wind. 
Oh, the cursed woods of Sussex ! where the hunt- 
er's arrow found me. 
When a fair face and a tender voice had made 
me mad and blind ! 

In that ancient hall of Wycombe, thronged the 
numerous guests invited, 
And the lovely London ladies trod the floors 
with gliding feet ; 
And their voices low with fashion, not with feel- 
ing, softly freighted 
All the air about the windows, with elastic 
laughters sweet. 

For at eve the open windows flung their light out 
on the terrace, 
Which the floating orbs of curtails did with 
gradual shadow sweep. 
While the swans upon the river, fed at morning by 
the heiress, 
Trembled downward through their snowy wings 
at music in their sleep. 



And there evermore was music, both of instrument 
and singing, 
Till the finches of the shrubberies grew restless 
in the dark ; 
But the cedars stood up motionless, each in a 
moonlight ringing, 
And the deer, half in the glimmer, strewed the 
hollows of the park. 

And though sometimes she would bind me with 
her silver-corded speeches 
To commix my words and laughter with the con- 
verse and the jest, 
Oft I sat apart, and, gazing on the river through 
the beeches. 
Heard, as pure the swans swam down it, her pure 
voice o'erfloat the rest. 

In the morning, horn of huntsman, hoof of steed, 
and laugh of rider, 
Spread out cheery from the court-yard till we 
lost them in the hills, 
While herself and other ladies, and her suitors left 
beside her, 
Went a-wandering up the gardens through the 
laurels and abeles. 

Thus her foot upon the new-mown grass, bare- 
headed, with the flowing 
Of the virginal white vesture gathered closely to 
her throat — 
And the golden ringlets in her neck just quickened 
by her going, 
And appearing to breathe sun for air, and doubt- 
ing if to float — 

With a branch of dewy maple, which her right 
hand held above her. 
And which trembled a green shadow in betwixt 
her and the skies, 
As she turned her face in going, thus, she drew 
me on to love her, 
And to worship the divineness of the smile hid 
in her eyes. 

For her eyes alone smile constantly : her lips have 
serious sweetness. 
And her front is calm — the dimple rarely ripples 
on the cheek ; 



LADY GERALDINE'S COURT SEIP. 



229 



But her deep blue eyes smile constantly, as if they 
in discreetness 
Kept the secret of a happy dream she did not 
care to speak. 

Thus she drew me the first morning, out across 
into the garden. 
And I walked among hernoble friends and could 
not keep behind. 
Spake she unto all and unto me — " Behold, I am 
the warden 
Of the song-birds in these lindens, which are 
cages to their mind. 

"But within this swarded circle, into which the 
lime-walk brings us, 
"Whence the beeches, rounded greenly, stand away 
in reverent fear, 
I will let no music enter, saving what the fountain 
sings us. 
Which the lilies round the basin may seem pure 
enough to hear. 

" The live air that waves the lilies, waves the slen- 
der jet of water 
Like a holy thought sent feebly up from soul of 
fasting saint. 
Whereby lies a marble Silence, sleeping ! (Lough 
the sculptor wrought her), 
So asleep she is forgetting to say Hush ! — a fancy 
quaint. 

" Mark how heavy white her eyelids ! not a dream 
between them lingers. 
And the left hand's index droppeth from the lips 
upon the cheek ; 
While the right hand, with the symbol rose held 
slack within the fingers. 
Has fallen backward in the basin ; yet this Si- 
lence will not speak ! 

" That the essential meaning growing may exceed 
the special symbol. 
Is the thought as I conceive it : it applies more 
high and low. 
Our true noblemen will often through right noble- 
ness grow humble, 
And assert an inward honor by denying outward 
show." 



" Nay, your Silence," said I, " truly, holds her sym- 
bol rose but slackly. 
Yet she Jiolds it — or would scarcely be a Silence 
to our ken. 
And your nobles wear their ermine on the outside, 
or walk blackly 
In the presence of the social law as mere ignoble 
men. 

" Let the poets dream such dreaming ! madam, in 
these British islands, 
'Tis the substance that wanes ever, 'tis the sym- 
bol that exceeds. 
Soon we shall have naught but symbol ! and, for 
statues like this Silence, 
Shall accept this rose's image — in another case, 
the weed's." 

" Not so quickly," she retorted — " I confess, wher- 
e'er you go, you 
Find for things, names — shows for actions, and 
pure gold for honor clear. 
But when all is run to symbol in the Social, I will 
throw you 
The world's book which now reads dryly, and 
sit down with Silence here." 

Half in playfulness she spoke, I thought, and half 
in indignation ; 
Friends who listened, laughed her words off, 
while her lovers deemed her fair. 
A fair woman flushed with feeling, in her noble- 
lighted station 
Near the statue's white reposing — and both 
bathed in sunny air ! 

With the trees round, not so distant but you heard 
their vernal murmur, 
And beheld in light and shadow the leaves in 
and outward move. 
And the little fountain leaping toward the sun- 
heart to be warmei', 
Then recoiling in a tremble from the too much 
light above. 

'Tis a picture for remembrance. And thus, morn- 
ing after morning, 
Did I follow as she drew me by the spirit to her 
feet. 



230 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Why, her greyhound followed also! dogs — we 
both were dogs for scorning — 
To be sent back when she pleased it, and her 
path lay through the wheat. 

And thus morning after morning, spite of vows 
and spite of sorrow, 
Did I follow at her drawiag, while the week-days 
passed along. 
Just to feed the swans this noontide, or to see the 
fawns to-morrow. 
Or to teach the hill-side echo some sweet Tuscan 
in a song. 

Ay, for sometimes on the hill-side, while we sate 
down in the gowans. 
With the forest green behind us, and its shadow 
cast before. 
And the river running under, and across it from 
the rowans 
A brown partridge whirring near us, till we felt 
the air it bore, 

There, obedient to her praying, did I read aloud 
the poems 
Made to Tuscan flutes, or instruments more va- 
rious of our own ; 
Read the pastoral parts of Spenser — or the subtUe 
interflowings 
Pound in Petrarch's sonnets — here's the book — 
the leaf is folded down ! — 

Or at times a modern volume — Wordsworth's 
solemn-thoughted idyl, 
Hewitt's ballad-verse, or Tennyson's enchanted 
reverie — 
Or from Browning some " Pomegranate," which, if 
cut deep down the middle, 
Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined 
humanity. 

Or at times I read there, hoarsely, some new poem 
of my making. 
Poets ever fail in reading their o\^n verses to 
their worth — 
For the echo in you breaks upon the words which 
you are speaking. 
And the chariot-wheels jar in the gate through 
which you drive them forth. 



After, when we were grown tired of books, the 
silence round us flinging 
A slow arm of sweet compression, felt with beat- 
ings at the breast. 
She would break out, on a sudden, in a gush of 
woodland singing, 
Like a child's emotion in a god — a naiad tired 
of rest. 

Oh, to see or hear her singing ! scarce I know 
which is divinest — 
For her looks sing too — she modulates her ges- 
tures on the tune ; 
And her mouth stirs with the song, like song ; and 
when the notes are finest, 
'Tis the eyes that shoot out vocal light and seem 
to swell them on. 

Then we talked — oh, how we talked ! her voice, so 
cadenced in the talking. 
Made another singing — of the soul! a music 
without bars. 
WhUe the leafy sounds of woodlands — humming 
round where we were walking. 
Brought interposition worthy-sweet — as skies 
about the stars. 

And she spake such good thoughts natural, as if 
she always thought them ; 
She had sympathies so rapid, open, free as bird 
on branch. 
Just as ready to fly east as west, whichever way be- 
sought them, 
In the birchen- wood a chirrup, or a cock-crow 
in the grange. 

In her utmost lightness there is truth — and often 
she speaks lightly, 
Has a grace in being gay, which even mournful 
souls approve. 
For the root of some grave earnest thought is 
understruck so rightly 
As to Justify the foliage and the waving flowers 
above. 

And she talked on — we talked, rather ! upon all 
things, substance, shadow, 
Of the sheep that browsed the grasses, of the 
reapers in the corn. 



LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 



231 



Of the little children from the schools, seen wind- 
ing through the meadow — 
Of the poor rich world beyond them, still kept 
poorer by its scorn. 

So of men, and so of letters; books are men of 
higher stature, 
And the only men that speak aloud for future 
times to hear ; 
So, of mankind in the abstract, which grows slowly 
into nature, 
Tet will lift the cry of "progress," as it trod 
from sphere to sphere. 

And her custom was to praise me when I said — 
" The Age culls simples, 
With a broad clown's back turned broadly to the 
glory of the stars. 
We are gods by our own reek'ning, and may well 
shut up the temples. 
And wield on, amid the incense-steam, the thun- 
der of our cars. 

" For we throw out acclamations of self -thanking, 
self-admiring. 
With, at every mOe run faster — ' the wondrous, 
wondrous age,' 
Little thinking if we work our souls as nobly as 
our iron. 
Or if angels will commend us at the goal of pil- 
grimage. 

" Why, what is this patient entrance into Nature's 
deep resources, 
But the child's most gradual learning to walk 
upright without bane ? 
When we drive out, from the cloud of steam, 
majestical white horses. 
Are we greater than the first men who led black 
ones by the mane ? 

" If we trod the deeps of ocean, if we struck the 
stars in rising. 
If we wrapped the globe intensely with one hot 
electric breath, 
'Twere but power within our tether, no new spirit- 
power comprising. 
And in life we were not greater men, nor bolder 
men in death." 



She was patient with my talking ; and I loved her, 
loved her certes. 
As I loved all heavenly objects, with uplifted 
eyes and hands ! 
As I loved pure inspirations, loved the graces, loved 
the virtues, 
In a Love content with writing his own name on 
desert sands. 

Or at least I thought so, purely ! — thought no idiot 
Hope was raising 
Any crown to crown Love's silence — silent love 
that sate alone. 
Out, alas ! the stag is like me — he, that tries to go 
on grazing 
With the great deep gun-wound in his neck, then 
reels with sudden moan. 

It was thus I reeled. I told you that her hand had 
many suitors ; 
But she smiles them down imperially, as Venus 
did the waves, 
And with such a gracious coldness, that they can- 
not press their fixtures 
On the present of her courtesy, which yieldingly 
enslaves. 

And this morning, as I sat alone within the inner 
chamber, 
With the great saloon beyond it, lost in pleasant 
thought serene — 
For I had been reading Camoens, that poem you 
remember. 
Which his lady's eyes are praised in, as the sweet- 
est ever seen — 

And the book lay open, and my thought flew from 
it, taking from it 
A vibration and impulsion to an end beyond its 
own. 
As the branch of a green osier, when a child would 
overcome it, 
Spirings up freely from his clasping and goes 
swinging in the sun. 

As I mused I heard a murmur — it grew deep as it 
grew longer^ — 
Speakers using earnest language — " Lady Geral- 
dine, you would!" 



232 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



And I heard a voice that pleaded ever on, in accents 
stronger, 
As a sense of reason gave it power to make its 
rhetoric good. 

Well I knew that voice ; it was an earl's of soul 
that matched his station, 
Soul completed into lordship, might and right 
read on his brow ; 
Very finely courteous, far too proud to doubt his 
domination 
Of the common people, he atones for grandeur 
by a bow. 

High, straight forehead, nose of eagle, cold blue 
eyes, of less expression 
Than resistance, coldly casting off the looks of 
other men. 
As steel, arrows ; unelastic lips, which seem to taste 
possession. 
And be cautious lest the common air should in- 
jure or distrain. 

For the rest, accomplished, upright — ay, and 
standing by his order 
With a bearing not ungraceful ; fond of art and 
letters too ; 
Just a good man made a proud man, as the sandy 
rocks that border 
A wild coast, by circumstances, in a regnant ebb 
and flow. 

Thus, I knew that voice — I heard it, and I could 
not help the hearkening, 
In the room I stood up blindly, and my burning 
heart within 
Seemed to seethe and fuse my senses, till they ran 
on all sides darkening, 
And scorched, weighed, like melted metal round 
my feet that stood therein. 

And that voice, I heard it pleading, for love's sake, 
for wealth, position. 
For the sake of liberal uses, and great actions to 
be done ; 
And she interrupted gently, " Nay, my lord, the 
old tradition 
Of your Normans, by some worthier hand than 
mine is, should be won." 



" Ah, that white hand ! " he said quickly, and in 
his he either drew it 
Or attempted, for with gravity and instance she 
replied, 
" Nay, indeed, my lord, this talk is vain, and we 
had best eschew it. 
And pass on, like friends, to other points less 
easy to decide." 

What he said again, I know not. It is likely that 
his trouble 
Worked his pride up to the surface, for she an- 
swered in slow scorn, 
"And your lordship judges rightly. Whom I 
marry, shall be noble. 
Ay, and wealthy. I shall never blush to think 
how he was born." 

There, I maddened ! her words stung me. Life 
swept through me into fever, 
And my soul sprang up astonished, sprang, fuU- 
statured in an hour. 
Know you what it is when anguish, with apoca- 
lyptic NEVER, 
To a Pjthian height dilates you — and despair 
sublimes to power % 

Prom my brain, the soul- wings budded — waved a 
flame about my body. 
Whence conventions coiled to ashes. I felt self- 
drawn-out, as man. 
Prom amalgamate false natures, and I saw the 
skies grow ruddy 
With the deepening feet of angels, and I knew 
what spirits can. 

I was mad — inspired — say either! (anguish work- 
eth inspiration). 
Was a man or beast — perhaps so, for the tiger 
roars, when speared ; 
And I walked on, step by step, along the level of 
my passion — 
Oh, my soul! and passed the doorway to her 
face, and never feared. 

He had left her, peradventure, when my footstep 
proved my coming — 
But for her — she half arose, then sate — grew 
scarlet and grew pale. 



LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 



233 



Oh, she trembled! — 'tis so always with a worldly 
man or woman 
In the presence of true spirits — what else can 
they do but quail ? 

Oh, she fluttered like a tame bird, in among its 
forest-brothers 
Par too strong for it ; then drooping, bowed her 
face upon her hands. 
And I spake out wildly, fiercely, brutal truths of 
her and others. 
I, she planted in the desert, swathed her, -wind- 
like, with my sands. 

I plucked up her social fictions, bloody-rooted 
though leaf-verdant. 
Trod them down with words of shaming — all 
the purple and the gold. 
All the "landed stakes" and lordships, all that 
spirits pure and ardent 
Are oast out of love and honor because chancing 
not to hold. 

"For myself I do not axgue," said I, "though I 
lore you, madam. 
But for better souls that nearer to the height of 
yours have trod. 
And this age shows, to my thinldng, stOl more 
infidels to Adam, 
Than directly, by profession, simple infidels to 
God. 

"Yet, God," I said, " grave," I said, "0 moth- 
er's heart and bosom, 
"VTith whom first and last are equal, saint and 
corpse and little chUd ! 
We are fools to your deductions, in these figments 
of heart-closing. 
We are traitors to your causes, in these sympa- 
thies defiled. 

"Learn more reverence, madam, not for rank or 
wealth — that needs no learning, 
That comes quickly — quick as sin does, ay, and 
culminates to sin ; 
But for Adam's seed, max ! Trust me, 'tis a clay 
above your scorning, 
With God's image stamped upon it, and God's 
kindling breath within. 



"What right have you, madam, gazing in your 
palace mirror daily. 
Getting so by heart your beauty which all others 
must adore. 
While you draw the golden ringlets down your 
fingers, to vow gayly 
You will wed no man that's only good to God, 
and nothing more ? 

"Why, what right have you, made fair by that 
same God — the sweetest woman 
Of all women he has fashioned — with your lovely 
spirit-face. 
Which would seem too near to vanish if its smile 
were not so human. 
And your voice of holy sweetness, turning com- 
mon words to grace ! — 

" What right can you have, God's other works to 
scorn, despise, revUe them 
In the gross, as mere men, broadly — not as noMe 
men, forsooth — 
As mere Pariahs of the outer world, forbidden to 
assoil them 
In the hope of living, dying, near that sweetness 
of your mouth ? 

"Have you any answer, madam? If my spirit 
were less earthly, 
If its instrument were gifted with a better sHver 
string, 
I would kneel down where I stand, and say. Be- 
hold me ! I am worthy 
Of thy loving, for 1 love thee ! I am worthy as 
a king. 

" As it is, youi- ermined pride, I swear, shall feel 
this stain upon her. 
That /, poor, "weak, tossed with passion, scorned 
by me and you again. 
Love you, madam, dare to love you, to my grief 
and your dishonor, 
To my endless desolation, and your impotent 
disdain ! " 

More mad words like these — mere madness! 
friend, I need not write them fuller. 
For I hear my hot soul dropping on the lines in 
showers of tears. 



234 



P0E3IS OF LOVE. 



Oh, a woman ! friend, a woman ! why, a beast had 
scarce been duller 
Than roar bestial loud complaints against the 
shining of the spheres. 

But at last there came a pause. I stood all vibrat- 
ing with thunder 
"Which my soul had used. The silence drew her 
face up like a call. 
Could you guess what word she uttered! She 
looked up, as if in wonder, 
With tears beaded on her lashes, and said, " Ber- 
tram ! " it was all. 

If she had cursed me, and she might have — or if 
even, with queenly bearing 
Which at need is used by women, she had risen 
up and said, 
" Sir, you are my guest, and therefore I have 
given you a full hearing. 
Now, beseech you, choose a name exacting some- 
what less, instead — " 

I had borne it ! — but that " Bertram " — why it 
lies there on the paper 
A mere word, without her accent, and you can- 
not judge the weight 
Of the calm which crushed my passion. I seemed 
drowning in a vapor. 
And her gentleness destroyed me whom her 
scorn made desolate. 

So, struck backward and exhausted by that inward 
flow of passion 
Which had rushed on, sparing nothing, into 
forms of abstract truth. 
By a logic agonizing through unseemly demonstra- 
tion, 
And by youth's own anguish turning grimly 
gray the hairs of youth — 

By the sense accursed and instant, that if even I 
spake wisely 
1 spake basely — using truth, if what I spake, in- 
deed was true, * 
To avenge wrong on a woman — her, who sate 
there weighing nicely 
A poor manhood's worth, found guUty of such 
deeds as I could do ! 



By such wrong and woe exhausted — what 1 suf- 
fered and occasioned — 
As a wild horse through a city runs with light- 
ning in his eyes, 
And then dashing at a church's cold and passive 
wall impassioned, 
Strikes the death into his burning brain, and 
blindly drops and dies — 

So I fell, struck down before her ! do you blame me, 
friend, for weakness ? 
'Twas my strength of passion slew me ! — fell be- 
fore her like a stone. 
Fast the dreadful world rolled from me, on its 
roaring wheels of blackness — 
When the light came, I was lying in this cham- 
ber, and alone. 

Oh, of course, she charged her lacqueys to bear out 
the sickly burden, 
And to cast it from her scornful sight, but not 
beyond the gate ; 
She is too kind to be cruel, and too haughty not to 
pardon 
Such a man as I — 'twere something to be level 
to her hate. 

But for me, you now are conscious why, my friend, 
I write this letter, 
How my life is read all backward, and the charm 
of life undone. 
I shall leave her house at dawn ; I would to-night, 
if I were better. 
And I charge my soul to hold my body strength- 
ened for the sun. 

When the sun has dyed the oriel, I depart, with no 
last gazes. 
No weak meanings (one word only, left in writ- 
ing for her hands). 
Out of reach of all derision, and some unavailing 
praises, 
To make front against this anguish in the far 
and foreign lands. 

Blame me not. I would not squander life in 
grief, I am abstemious. 
I but nurse my spirit's falcon, that its wing may 
soar again. 



LADY GEBALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 



235 



There's no room for tears of weakness in the blind 
eyes of a Phemius ! 
Into work the poet kneads them, and he does 
not die till then. 

CONCLUSION. 

Bertram finished the last pages, whUe along the 
silence ever. 
Still in hot and heavy splashes fell the tears on 
every leaf. 
Having ended, he leans backward in his chair, with 
lips that quiver 
From the deep unspoken, ay, and deep unwrit- 
ten thoughts of grief. 

Soh ! how still the lady standeth ! 'tis a dream, a 
dream of mercies ! 
'Twixt the purple lattice-curtains, how she stand- 
eth still and pale ! 
'Tis a vision, sure, of mercies, sent to soften his 
seK-curses, 
Sent to sweep a patient quiet o'er the tossing of 
his wail. 

" Eyes," he said, " now throbbing through me ! are 
ye eyes that did undo me ? 
Shining eyes, Uke antique jewels set in Parian 
statue-stone I 
Underneath that calm white forehead, are ye ever 
burning torrid 
O'er the desolate sand-desert of my heart and 
life undone ? " 

With a murmurous stir uncertain, in the air, the 
purple curtain 
Swelleth in and swelleth out around her motion- 
less pale brows. 
While the gliding of the river sends a rippling 
noise forever 
Through the open casement whitened by the 
moonlight's slant repose. 

Said he — "Vision of a lady! stand there silent, 
stand there steady ! 
Now 1 see it plainly, plainly; now I cannot 
hope or doubt : 
There the brows of mild repression, there the lips 
of silent passion. 
Curved like an archer's bow to send the bitter 
arrows out." 



Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept 
smiling, 
And approached him slowly, slowly, in a gliding 
measured pace ; 
With her two white hands extended, as if praying 
one offended, 
And a look of supplication, gazing earnest in his 
face. 

Said he — "Wake me by no gesture, sound of 
breath, or stir of vesture ? 
Let the blessed apparition melt not yet to its 
divine ! 
No approaching — hush, no breathing I or my 
heart must swoon to death in 
The too utter life thou bringest, thou dream 
of Geraldine ! " 

Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept 
smiling, 
But the tears ran over lightly from her eyes, and 
tenderly, 
" Dost thou, Bertram, truly love me ? Is no woman 
far above me 
Found more worthy of thy poet-heart than such 
a one as I ? " 

Said he — " I would dream so ever, like the flowing 
of that river, 
Flowing ever in a shadow greenly onward to the 
sea ! 
So, thou vision of all sweetness, princely to a full 
completeness. 
Would my heart and life flow onward, death- 
ward, through this dream of thee ! " 

Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept 
smiling. 
While the silver tears ran faster down the blush- 
ing of her cheeks ; 
Then with both her hands enfolding both of his, 
she softly told him, 
" Bertram, if I say I love thee, . . . 'tis the vision 
only speaks." 

Softened, quickened to adore her, on his knee he 
fell before her, 
And she whispered low in. triumph, " It shall be 
as I have sworn ! 



236 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Very rich he is in virtues, very noble, noble 
certes ; 
And I shall not blush in knowing that men call 
him lowly born." 

Elizabeth Babbett Bkowitcno. 



^\\t Spinning- tol) eel Song. 

Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning ; 
Close by the window young Eileen is spinning ; 
Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting, 
Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily knit- 
ting. 
" Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." 
" 'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flap- 
ping." 
" Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." 
" 'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind 

dying." 
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring. 
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's 

stirring ; 
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing. 
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden sing- 
ing. 

" What's that noise that I hear at the window, I 

wonder ? " 
"'Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush 

under." 
"What makes you be shoving and moving your 

stool on. 
And singing all wrong that old song of 'The 

Coolun?'" 
There's a form at the easement, the form of her 

true-love. 
And he whispers, with face bent, " I'm waiting for 

you, love ; 
Get up on the stool, through the lattice step 

lightly. 
We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining 

brightly." 
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, , 

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's 

stirring ; 
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing. 
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden sing- 
ing. 



The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her 

fingers. 
Steals up from her seat, longs to go, and yet 

lingers ; 
A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grand- 
mother. 
Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the 

other. 
Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round ; 
Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound ; 
Noiseless and light to the lattice above her 
The maid steps, then leaps to the arms of her 

lover. 
Slower, and slower, and slower the wheel swings ; 
Lower, and lower, and lower the reel rings ; 
Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and 

moving. 
Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight 

are roving. 

JOHK FbANCIS WAliEE. 



SDoris : ^ IJastorol. 

I SAT with Doris, the shepherd-maiden ; 

Her crook was laden with wreathed flowers : 
I sat and wooed her, through sunlight wheeling 

And shadows stealing, for hours and hours. 

And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses 
Wild summer-roses of sweet perfume. 

The while I sued her, kept hushed, and heark- 
ened. 
Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom. 

She touched my shoulder with fearful finger : 
She said, " We linger, we must not stay ; 

My flock's in danger, my sheep will wander ; 
Behold them yonder, how far they stray ! " 

I answered bolder, " Nay, let me hear you. 
And still be near you, and still adore ! 

No wolf nor stranger will touch one yearling. 
Ah ! stay, my darling, a moment more ! " 

She whispered, sighing, " There will be sorrow 
Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day ; 

My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded, 
I shall be scolded and sent away." 



THE OLD STORY. 237 


Said I, denying, " If they do miss you, 


But there, for throbbing of his heart, 


They ought to kiss you when you get home : 


He paused perforce to lean. 


And well rewarded by friend and neighbor 




Should be the labor from which you come." 


He leaned upon the garden gate ; 




He looked, and scarce he breathed ; 


" They might remember," she answered, meekly. 


Within the little porch she sate. 


" That lambs are weakly, and sheep are wild ; 


With woodbine overwreathed ; 


But if they love me, it's none so fervent : 


Her eyes upon her work were bent. 


I am a servant, and not a child." 


Unconscious who was nigh : 




But oft the needle slowly went, 


Then each hot ember glowed quick within me. 


And oft did idle lie : 


And love did win me to swift reply : 


And ever to her lips arose 


" Ah ! do but prove me ; and none shall bind 


Sweet fragments sweetly sung. 


you, 


But ever, ere the notes could close, 


jSTor fray nor find you, until I die ! " 


She hushed them on her tongue. 


She blushed and started : I stood awaiting, 


Her fancies as they come and go. 


As if debating in dreams divine ; 


Her pure face speaks the while ; 


But I did brave them ; I told her plainly 


For now it is a flitting glow, 


She doubted vainly, — she must be mine. 


And now a breaking smUe ; 




And now it is a graver shade. 


So we, twin-hearted, from all the valley 


When holier thoughts are there — 


Did rouse and rally her nibbling ewes ; 


An angel's pinion might be stayed 


And homeward drave them, we two together, 


To see a sight so fair ; 


Through blooming heather and gleaming dews. 


But stOl they hid her looks of light, 


That simple duty fresh grace did lend her, 


Those downcast eyelids pale — 
Two lovely clouds, so silken white, 
Two lovelier stars that veil. 


My Doris tender, my Doris true ; 


That I, her warder, did always bless her, 




And often press her to take her due. 


The sun at length his burning edge 




Had rested on the hill. 


And now in beauty she fills my dwelling, 


And, save one thrash from out the hedge. 


With love excelling, and undefiled ; 


7 O J 

Both bower and grove were still. 


And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent, 


The sun had almost bade farewell ; 


No more a servant, nor yet a child. 


But one reluctant ray 


/ Arthur Joseph Munbt. 


Still loved within that porch to dwell, 




As charmed there to stay — 




It stole aslant the pear-tree bough, 


@;i>e CDlir Stora. 


And through the woodbine fringe. 




And kissed the maiden's neck and brow. 


He came across the meadow-pass, 


And bathed her in its tinge. 


That summer eve of eves, 




The sunlight streamed along the grass 


" beauty of my heart ! " he said. 


And glanced amid the leaves ; 


" darling, darling mine ! 


And from the shrubbery below, 


Was ever light of evening shed 


And from the garden trees. 


On loveliness like thine ? 


He heard the thrushes' music flow 


Why should I ever leave this spot. 


And humming of the bees ; 


But gaze until I die % " 


The garden gate was swung apart, 


A moment from that bursting thought 


The space was brief between ; 


She felt his footstep nigh. 



238 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



One sudden, lifted glance — but one — 

A tremor and a start — 
So gently was their greeting done 

That who would guess their heart ? 

Long, long the sun had sunken down, 

And all his golden hail 
Had died away to lines of brown. 

In duskier hues that fail. 
The grasshopper was chirping shrill ; 

No other living sound 
Accompanied the tiny rill 

That gurgled under ground ; 
No other living sound, unless 

Some spirit bent to hear 
Low words of human tenderness 

And mingling whispers near. 

The stars, like pallid gems at first, 

Deep in the liquid sky. 
Now forth upon the darkness burst, 

Sole kings and lights on high ; 
For splendor, myriad-fold, supreme, 

No rival moonlight strove ; 
Nor lovelier e'er was Hesper's beam. 

Nor more majestic Jove. 
But what if hearts there beat that night 

That recked not of the skies. 
Or only felt their imaged light 

In one another's eyes ? 

And if two worlds of hidden thought 

And longing passion met, 
Which, passing human language, sought 

And found an utterance yet ; 
And if they trembled as the flowers 

That droop across the stream. 
And muse the while the starry hours 

Wait o'er them like a dream ; 
And if, when came the parting time. 

They faltered still and clung ; 
What is it all ? — an ancient rhyme 

Ten thousand times besung — 
Tliat part of Paradise which man • 

Without the portal knows. 
Which hath been since the world began, 

And shall be till its close. 

Anontmotts. 



Coxl}int)ar. 

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west ; 
Through all the wide border his steed was the best ; 
And save his good broad-sword he weapon had none; 
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war. 
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for 

stone ; 
He swam the Esk river where ford there was 

none ; 
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 
The bride had consented, the gallant came late : 
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war. 
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 

'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and 

all: 
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his 

sword, 
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a 

word), 
" Oh come ye in peace here, or come ye in war. 
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Loch- 
invar?" 

" I long wooed your daughter, my suit you de- 
nied; 

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its 
tide; 

And now I am come, with this lost love of 
mine, 

To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine ; 

There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by 
far, 

That would gladly be bride to the young Lochin- 
var." 

The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it 

up; 
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the 

cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to 

sigh. 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. 



JOCK OF EAZELBEAN. 



239 



He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, 
" Now tread we a measure ! " said young Loch- 
invar, 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 

That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; 

WhUe her mother did fret and her father did 
fume, 

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet 
and plume ; 

And the bride-maidens whispered, " 'Twere better 
by far 

To have matched our fair cousin with young Loch- 
invar." 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her 

ear, 
When they reached the hall door and the charger 

stood near ; 
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung. 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 
" She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and 

scaur ; 
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young 

Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Nether- 
by clan ; 

Forsters, Penwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and 
they ran : 

There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie 
Lee, 

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they 
see. 

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war. 

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Loch- 
invar ? 

Sir Walter Scott. 



Sock of %(i-\t\iit<!^Xi. 

" Why weep ye by the tide, ladye ? 

Why weep ye by the tide ? 
I'll wed ye to my youngest son. 

And ye shall be his bride ; 
And ye shaU be his bride, ladye, 

Sae comely to be seen." 
But ay she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 



" Now let this wilful grief be done. 

And dry that cheek so pale ; 
Young Frank is chief of Errington, 

And lord of Langley dale ; 
His step is first in peaceful ha', 

His sword in battle keen." 
But ay she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

" A chain of gold ye shaU not lack, 

Nor braid to bind your hair. 
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk. 

Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; 
And you the foremost of them a' 

Shall ride, our forest queen." 
But ay she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

The kirk was decked at morning tide ; 

The tapers glimmered fair ; 
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride. 

And knight and dame are there ; 
They sought her both by bower and ha' ; 

The ladye was not seen. 
She's o'er the border, and awa' 

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



^l)t ©utlao). 

0, Bbignall banks are wUd and fair, 

And Greta woods are green. 
And you may gather garlands there 

Would grace a summer queen. 
And as I rode by Dalton Hall 

Beneath the turrets high, 
A maiden on the castle wall 

Was singing merrUy : 
" 0, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 

And Greta woods are green ; 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there 

Than reign our English queen." 

" If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me. 
To leave both tower and town. 

Thou first must guess what life lead we 
That dwell by dale and down. 



240 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



And if thou canst that riddle read, 

As read full well you may, 
Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed 

As blithe as Queen of May." 
Yet sung she : " Brignall banks are fair. 

And Greta woods are green ; 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there 

Than reign our English queen. 

" I read you by your bugle-horn 

And by your palfrey good, 
1 read you for a ranger sworn 

To keep the king's greenwood." 
" A ranger, lady, winds his horn. 

And 'tis at peep of light ; 
His blast is heard at merry mom, 

And mine at dead of night." 
Yet sung she : " Brignall banks are fair. 

And Greta woods are gay ; 
I would I were with Edmund there 

To reign his Queen of May ! 

With burnished brand and musketoon 

So gallantly you come, 
I read you for a bold dragoon 

That lists the tuck of drum." 
" I list no more the tuck of drum. 

No more the trumpet hear ; 
But when the beetle sounds his hum 

My comrades take the spear. 
And 0, though Brignall banks be fair, 

And Greta woods be gay, 
Yet mickle must the maiden dare 

Would reign my Queen of May ! 

" Maiden, a nameless life I lead, 

A nameless death I'll die ; 
The fiend whose lantern lights the mead 

Were better mate than I. 
And when I'm with my comrades met 

Beneath the greenwood bough, 
What once we were we all forget, 

Nor think what we are now. 
Yet BrignaU banks are fresh and fair. 

And Greta woods are green. 
And you may gather garlands there 

Would grace a summer queen." 

Sir Walter Scott. 



Core in tlje ballcg. 



UxDER yonder beech-tree standing on the green 

sward. 
Couched with her arms behind her little head. 
Her knees folded up, and her tresses on her bosom, 
Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. 
Had I the heart to slide one arm beneath her ! 
Press her dreaming lips as her waist I folded slow. 
Waking on the instant she could not but embrace 

me — 
Ah ! would she hold me, and never let me go ? 

Shy as the squirrel, and wayward as the swallow ; 

Swift as the swallow when, athwart the western 
flood, 

Circleting the surface, he meets his mirrored wing- 
lets. 

Is that dear one in her maiden bud. 

Shy as the squirrel whose nest is in the pine- 
tops; 

Gentle — ah ! that she were jealous — as the dove ! 

Full of all the wildness of the woodland creatures, 

Happy in herself is the maiden that I love ! 

What can have taught her distrust of all I tell her ? 

Can she tnily doubt me when looking on my 
brows ? 

Nature never teaches distrust of tender love- 
tales ; 

What can have taught her distrust of all my 
vows? 

No, she does not doubt me ! on a dewy eve-tide. 

Whispering together beneath the listening moon, 

I prayed till her cheek flushed, implored till she 
faltered — 

Fluttered to my bosom — ah ! to fly away so soon ! 

When her mother tends her before the laughing 

mirror. 
Tying up her laces, looping up her hair. 
Often she thinks — were this wild thing wedded, 
I should have more love, and much less care. 
When her mother tends her before the bashful 

mirror. 
Loosening her laces, combing down her curls, 
Often she thinks — were this wild thing wedded, 
I should lose but one for so many boys and girls. 



OUR LOVE SHALL LIVE. 



241 



Clambering roses peep into her chamber, 
Jasmine and woodbine breathe sweet, sweet ; 
White-necked swallows, twittering of summer, 
Fill her with balm and nested peace from head to 

feet. 
Ah ! will the rose-bough see her lying lonely, 
When the petals fall and fierce bloom is on the 

leaves ? 
Will the autumn gamers see her still ungath- 

ered. 
When the fickle swallows forsake the weeping 

eaves ? 

Comes a sudden question — should a strange hand 
pluck her ! 

Oh ! what an anguish smites me at the thought ! 

Should some idle lordling bribe her mind with 
jewels ! 

Can such beauty ever thus be bought ? 

Sometimes the huntsmen, prancing down the val- 
ley. 

Eye the village lasses, full of sprightly mirth ; 

They see, as I see, mine is the fairest ! 

Woidd she were older and could read my worth ! 

Are there not sweet maidens, if she still deny 
me? 

Show the bridal heavens but one bright star ? 

Wlierefore thus then do I chase a shadow, 

Clattering one note like a brown eve-jar ? 

So I rhyme and reason till she darts before 
me — 

Through the mUky meadows from flower to flower 
she flies. 

Sunning her sweet palms to shade her dazzled eye- 
lids 

From the golden love that looks too eager in her 
eyes. 

When at dawn she wakens, and her fair face 

gazes 
Out on the weather through the window panes, 
Beauteous she looks ! like a white water-lily 
Bursting out of bud on the rippled river plains. 
When from bed she rises, clothed from neck to 

ankle 
In her long night gown, sweet as boughs of May, 
Beauteous she looks ! like a tall garden lUy, 
Pure from the night and perfect for the day ! 
i8 



Happy, happy time, when the gi'ay star twinkles 

Over the fields all fresh with bloomy dew ; 

When the cold-cheeked dawn grows ruddy up the 

twilight, 
And the gold sun wakes and weds her in the blue. 
Then when my darling tempts the early breezes. 
She the only star that dies not with the dark ! 
Powerless to speak all the ardor of my passion, 
I catch her little hand as we listen to the lark. 

Shall the birds in vain then valentine their sweet- 
hearts ? 

Season after season tell a fruitless tale ? 

Will not the virgin listen to their voices ? 

Take the honeyed meaning, wear the bridal veil ? 

Fears she frosts of winter, fears she the bare 
branches ? 

Waits she the garlands of spring for her dower ? 

Is she a nightingale that will not be nested 

Till the April woodland has built her bridal 
bower ? 

Then come, merry April, with all thy birds and 
beauties ! 

With thy crescent brows and thy flowery, showery 
glee; 

With thy budding leafage and fresh green pas- 
tures ; 

And may thy lustrous crescent grow a honeymoon 
for me ! 

Come, meny month of the cuckoo and the violet ! 

Come, weeping loveliness in all thy blue delight ! 

Lo ! the nest is ready, let me not languish longer ! 

Bring her to my arms on the first May night. 

Gbobse Meredith. 



ODur tout sl)aU £it)e. 

One day I wrote her name upon the strand ; 

But came the waves and washed it away ; 
Again I wrote it with a second hand. 

But came the tide and made my pains his prey. 
Vain man ! said she, that dost in vain assay 

A mortal thing so to immortalize ; 
For I myself shall like to this decay, 

And eke my name be wiped out likewise. 
Not so, quoth I ; let baser things devise 

To die in dust, but you shall live by fame ; 



242 P0E3IS OF LOVE. 


My verse your virtues rare shall eternize, 


I spoke with heart, and heat, and force, 


And in the heavens write your glorious name, 


I shook her breast with vague alarms — 


Where, whenas death shaU all the world subdue, 


Like torrents from a mountain source 


Our love shall live, and later life renew. 


We rushed into each other's arms. 


Edihind Spenser. 






We parted. Sweetly gleamed the stars. 




And sweet the vapor-braided blue ; 


^\\z Cetters. 


Low breezes fanned the belfry bars. 


As homeward by the church I drew. 


Still on the tower stood the vane ; 


The very graves appeared to smile, 


A black yew gloomed the stagnant air ; 


So fresh they rose in shadowed swells ; 


I peered athwart the chancel pane, 


" Dark porch," I said, " and silent aisle. 


And saw the altar cold and bare. 


There comes a sound of marriage beUs." 


A clog of lead was round my feet. 


Alpked Tbnntson. 


A band of pain across my brow ; 




" Cold altar, heaven and earth shall meet 




Before you hear my marriage vow." 


Bonnets. 


I turned and hummed a bitter song 


That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect, 


That mocked the wholesome human heart ; 


For slander's mark was ever yet the fair ; 


And then we met in wrath and wrong. 


The ornament of beauty is suspect. 


We met, but only meant to part. 


A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air. 


Full cold my greeting was and dry ; 


So thou be good, slander doth but approve 


She faintly smiled, she hardly moved ; 


Thy worth the greater, being wooed of time ; 


I saw, with half-unconscious eye. 


For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love. 


She wore the colors I approved. 


And thou present's! a pure unstained prime. 




Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days. 


She took the little ivory chest ; 


Either not assailed, or victor being charged ; 


With half a sigh she turned the key. 


Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, 


Then raised her head with lips comprest. 


To tie up envy, evermore enlarged. 


And gave my letters back to me. 


If some suspect of ill masked not thy show, 


And gave the trinkets and the rings. 


Then, thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst 


My gifts, when gifts of mine could please ; 


owe. 


As looks a father on the things 




Of his dead son, I looked on these. 


So are you to my thoughts, as food to life. 




Or as sweet-seasoned showers are to the ground ; 


She told me all her friends had said ; 


And for the peace of you I hold such strife 


I raged against the public liar. 


As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found ; 


She talked as if her love were dead ; 


Now proud as an en j oyer, and anon 


But in my words were seeds of fire. 


Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure ; 


" No more of love ; your sex is known : 


Now counting best to be with you alone. 


I never will be twice deceived ; 


Then bettered that the world may see my pleas- 


Henceforth I trust the man alone ; 


ure; 


The woman cannot be believed. < 


Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, 




And by and by clean starved for a look ; 


" Through slander, meanest spawn of hell 


Possessing or pursuing no delight. 


(And woman's slander is the worst). 


Save what is had or must from you be took. 


And you, whom once I loved so well. 


Thus do I pine and suffer day by day ; 


Through you my life will be accurst." 


Or gluttoning on all, or all away. 



SONNETS. 



243 



Farewell ! thou art too dear for my possessing, 

And like enough thou know'st thy estimate ; 
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ; 

My bonds in thee are all determinate. 
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting ? 

And for that riches where is my deserving ? 
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, 

And so my patent back again is swerving. 
Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not know- 

Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking ; 
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing. 

Comes home again, on better judgment mak- 
ing. 
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter : 
In sleep a king ; but waking no such matter. 



Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness ; 

Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport : 
Both grace and faults are loved of more and 
less ; 

Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort. 
As on the finger of a throned queen 

The basest jewel will be well esteemed, 
So are those errors that in thee are seen, • 

To truths translated, and for true things deemed. 
How many lambs might the stern wolf betray. 

If like a lamb he could his looks translate ! 
How many gazers might'st thou lead away, 

If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state ! 
But do not so ; I love thee in such sort 
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report. 



How like a winter hath my absence been 

From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year 1 
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen, 

What old December's bareness everywhere ! 
And yet this time removed was summer's time ; 

The teeming autumn, big with rich increase, 
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime. 

Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease ; 
Yet this abundant issue seemed to me 

But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit ; 
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee. 

And, thou away, the very birds are mute ; 
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer. 
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near. 



From you have I been absent in the spring, 

When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, 
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing. 

That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him. 
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell 

Of different flowers in odor and in hue. 
Could make me any summer's story tell. 

Or from their proud lap pluck them where they 
grew; 
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white. 

Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ; 
They are but sweet, but figures of delight, 

Drawn after you — you pattern of all those. 
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away. 
As with your shadow I with these did play. 



The forward violet thus did I chide : 

Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet 
that smells. 
If not from my love's breath ? the purple pride 

Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells, 
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. 

The lily I condemned for thy hand, 
And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair ; 

The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, 
One blushing shame, another white despair ; 

A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both. 
And to this robbery had annexed thy breath ; 

But for his theft, in pride of all his growth 
A vengeful canker eat him up to death. 

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see. 

But sweet in color it had stolen from thee. 



When in the chronicle of wasted time 

I see descriptions of the fairest wights. 
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme, 

In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights ; 
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best. 

Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, 
I see their antique pen would have expressed 

Even such a beauty as you master now. 
So all their praises are but prophecies 

Of this our time, all you prefiguring : 
And for they looked but with divining eyes, 

They had not skill enough your worth to sing ; 
For we, which now behold these present days. 
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. 



344 



POEIIS OF LOVE. 



Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul 

Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come, 
Can yet the lease of my true love control, 

Supposed as forfeit to a coniined doom. 
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured. 

And the sad augurs mock their own presage : ■ 
Ineertainties now crown themselves assured, 

And peace proclaims olives of endless age. 
Now, with the drops of this most balmy time 

My love looks fresh, and death to me sub- 
scribes. 
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme. 

While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes : 
And thou in this shalt find thy monument, 
"When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent. 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 

Admit impediments ; love is not love. 
Which alters when it alteration finds. 

Or bends with the remover to remove. 
Oh no ! it is an ever-fixed mark. 

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; 
It is the star to every wandering bark. 

Whose worth 's unknown, although his height be 
taken. 
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and 
cheeks 

Within his bending sickle's compass come ; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks. 

But bears it out, even to the edge of doom. 
If this be error, and upon me proved, 
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

Oh ! never say that I was false of heart. 

Though absence seemed my flame to qualify ; 
As easy might I from myself depart, 

As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie. 
That is my home of love ; if I have ranged. 

Like him that travels, I return again — 
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged ; 

So that myself bring water for my stain. 
Never believe, though in my nature reigned 

All frailties that besiege lall kinds of blood. 
That it could so preposterously be stained. 

To leave for nothing all thy sum of good ; 
For nothing this wide universe I call, 
Save thou, my rose ; in it thou art my all. 

William Shakespeare. 



Sonnets. 

Come sleep, 0. sleep ! the certain knot of peace, 

The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe ; 
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, 

The indifferent Judge between the high and low ! 
With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease 

Of those fierce darts despair doth at me throw. 
Oh make in me those civil wars to cease ; 

I will good tribute pay if thou do so. 
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, 

A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, 
A rosy garland and a weary head ; 

And if these things, as being thine by right. 
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me. 
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. 

In martial sports I had my cunning tried. 
And yet to break more staves did me address ; 
While with the people's shouts I must confess, 

Youth, luck, and praise e'en filled my veins with 
pride ; 

When Cupid having me, his slave, descried 
In Mars's livery, prancing in the press, 
" What now. Sir Fool ? " said he, " I would no less ; 

Look here, I say." — I looked, and Stella spied, 
Who, hard by, made a window send forth light ; 

My heart then quaked; then dazzled were mine eyes ; 
One hand forgot to rule, the other to fight ; 

Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries. 
My foe came on and beat the air for me. 
Till that her blush taught me my shame to see. 

HAPPY Thames that didst my Stella bear ; 

I saw myself with many a smiling line 
Upon thy cheerful face, Joy's livery wear. 

While those fair planets on thy streams did shine ; 
The boat for Joy could not to dance forbear ; 

While wanton winds, with beauties so divine 
Ravished, staid not till in her golden hair 

They did themselves, oh sweetest prison ! twine ; 
And fain those Eol's youth there would their stay 

Have made, but forced by nature still to fly. 
First did with puffing kiss those locks display. 

She so dishevelled, blushed : from window I, 
With sight thereof, cried out, oh fair disgrace ! 
Let honor's self to thee grant highest place. 



SONWJSTS. 



245 



With how sad steps, Moon, thou climb'st the 
skies. 

How silently, and with how wan a face ! 

What ! may it be, that even in heavenly place 
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries ? 
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes 

Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's ease ; 

I read it in thy looks ; thy languished grace, 
To me that feel the like, thy state descries. 

Then even of fellowship, Moon, tell me : 
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit ? 

Are beauties there as proud as here they be ? 
Do they above love to be loved, and yet 

Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess ? 

Do they call virtue there ungratefulness f 

Sib Philip Sidney. 



J %im ®l)ee ®tcrnitp. 

How many paltry, foolish, painted things, 

That now in coaches trouble every street, 
Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings, 

Ere they be well wrapped in their winding- 
sheet, 
Where I to thee eternity shall give 

When nothing else remaineth of these days. 
And queens hereafter shall be glad to live 

Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise ; 
Virgins and matrons reading these, my rhymes. 

Shall be so much delighted with thy story. 
That they shall grieve they lived not in these times, 

To have seen thee, their sex's only glory : 
So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng. 
Still to survive in my immortal song. 

Michael Dratton. 



Sonnet. 

I KNOW that aU beneath the moon decays ; 
And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
In time's great periods shall return to nought ; 

That fairest states have fatal nights and days. 

I know that all the muses' heavenly lays. 
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought. 
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought ; 

That there is nothing lighter than vain praise. 



I know frail beauty's like the purple flower 
To which one morn oft birth and death affords. 
That love a jarring is of mind's accords. 

Where sense and will bring under reason's power : 
Know what I list, this all cannot me move, 
But that, alas ! I both must write and love. 

William Drummond. 



Bonnet. 

If it be true that any beauteous thing 

Raises the pure and just desire of man 

From earth to God, the eternal fount of all. 

Such I believe my love ; for as in her 

So fair, in whom I all besides forget, 

I view the gentle work of her Creator, 

I have no care for any other thing. 

Whilst thus I love. Nor is it marvellous, 

Since the effect is not of my own power, 

If the soul doth, by nature tempted forth, 

Enamored through the eyes. 

Repose upon the eyes which it resembleth. 

And through them riseth to the Primal Love, 

As to its end, and honors in admiring : 

For who adores the Maker needs must love His 

work. 

Michel Angelo. (Italian.) 
Translation of J. E. Taylor. 



®o bittoria ffiolonna. 

Yes ! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, 

And I be undeluded, unbetrayed ; 
For if of our affections none find grace 

In sight of heaven, then wherefore hath God made 
The world which we inhabit 1 Better plea 
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee 

Glory to that Eternal Peace is paid. 
Who such divinity to thee imparts 
As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. 

His hope is treacherous only whose love dies 
With beauty, which is varying every hour : 
Bat in chaste hearts, uninfluenced by the power 
Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower, 

That breathes on earth the air of paradise. 

Michel Angelo. (Italian.) 
Translation of William Wordsworth. 



246 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Sonnets from tl)e JJortngncse. 

If thou must love me, let it be for nought 
Except for love's sake only. Do not say 
" I love her for her smile, her look, her way 

Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought 

That falls in well with mine, and certes brought 
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day. " 
For these things in themselves, beloved, may 

Be changed, or change for thee, — and love so 
wrought. 

May be un wrought so. Neither love me for 
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, — 

A creature might forget to weep, who bore 
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby. 

But love me for love's sake, that evermore 
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity. 



I NEVER gave a lock of hair away 
To a man, dearest, except this to thee. 
Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully 

I ring out to the full brown length, and say, 

" Take it ! " My day of youth went yesterday ; 
My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee. 
Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree. 

As girls do, any more. It only may 

Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears, 
Taught drooping from the head that hangs 
aside 

Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral 
shears 
Would take this first, but love is justified, — 

Take it thou, — finding pure, from all those years. 
The kiss my mother left there when she died. 



Say over again, and yet once over again. 
That thou dost love me. Though the word re- 



Should seem "a cuckoo-song," as thou dost 
treat it, 
Remember, never to the hiU or plain, 
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain, 
Comes the fresh Spring in all her green com- 
pleted. 
Beloved, 1, amid the darkness greeted 
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain 



Cry : " Speak once more — thou lovest ! " Who can 
fear 
Too many stars, though each in heaven shall 
roll — 
Too many flowers, though each shaU crown the 
year? 
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me — toll 
The silver iterance ! — only minding, dear, 
To love me also in silence, with thy soul. 



If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange 

And be all to me ? ShaU I never miss 

Home-talk and blessing, and the common kiss 
That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange. 
When 1 look up, to drop on a new range 

Of walls and floors — another home than this ? 

Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is 
Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change ? 
That's hardest. If to conquer Love has tried. 

To conquer Grief tries more, as all things prove ; 
For grief indeed is love and grief beside. 

Alas, I have grieved so, I am hard to love. 
Yet love me — wilt thou ? Open thine heart wide 

And fold within the wet wings of thy dove. 



First time he kissed me, he but only kissed 

The fingers of this hand wherewith I write ; 

And, ever since, it grew more clean and white. 
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its " list ! " 
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst 

I could not wear here, plainer to my sight, 

Than that first kiss. The second passed in 
height 
The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed, 
Half falling on the hair. Oh, beyond meed ! 

That was the chrism of love, which love's own 
crown. 
With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. 

The third upon my lips was folded down 
In perfect, purple state ; since when, indeed, 

I have been proud, and said, " My love, my 
own ! " 

How do I love thee ? Let me count the ways : 
I love thee to the depth, and breadth, and height 
My soul can reach, when feeling, out of sight, 

For the ends of being and ideal grace. 



A LECTURE UPON THE SHADOW. 



247 



I love thee to the level of every day's 

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 

1 love thee freely as men strive for right ; 
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. 
1 love thee with the passion put to use 

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. 
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 

With my lost saints. 1 love thee with the breath, 
Smiles, tears, of all my life ! — and, if God choose, 

I shall but love thee better after death. 

Elizabeth Baekett Browuing. 



(Jo ©nc tDl)o tDonlJ) make a €:onfcssion. 

Oh ! leave the past to bury its own dead. 

The past is naught to us, the present all. 
What need of last year's leaves to strew Love's bed 1 

What need of ghost to grace a festival 1 

I would not, if I could, those days recall, 
Those days not ours. For us the feast is spread. 

The lamps are lit, and music plays withal. 
Then let us love and leave the rest unsaid. 
■This island is our home. Around it roar 

Great gulfs and oceans, channels, straits, and seas. 
What matter in what wreck we reached the shore. 

So we both reached it ? We can mock at these. 
Oh ! leave the past, if past indeed there be ; 
I would not know it ; I would know but thee. 

■Wilfred Scawen Blunt. 



®o ®nc (Excusing l)i6 |}ot)crtii. 

Ah ! love, impute it not to me a sin 

That my poor soul thus beggared comes to thee. 
My soul a pilgrim was, in search of thine. 

And met these accidents by land and sea. 

The world was hard, and took its usury. 
Its toll for each new night in each new inn ; 

And every road had robber bands to fee ; 
And all, even kindness, must be paid in coin. 
Behold my scrip is empty, my heart bare. 

1 give thee nothing who my all would give. 
My pOgrimage is finished, and I fare 

Bare to my death, unless with thee I live. 
Ah ! give, love, and forgive that I am poor. 
Ah ! take me to thy arms and ask no more. 

WlLPBED SCAWEN BlTTNT. 



^ %etXmt ti|)on tl)e SIjabotD. 

Stand still, and I will read to thee 
A lecture, Love, in love's philosophy. 
These three hours that we have spent 
Walking here, two shadows went 

Along with us, which we ourselves produced : 
But, now the sun is just above our head, 
We do those shadows tread. 

And to brave clearness all things are reduced. 
So whilst our infant loves did grow, 
Disguises did and shadows flow 
Prom us and from our cares ; but now it is not so. 

That love hath not attained the high'st degree. 

Which is still diligent lest others see ; 

Except our loves at this noon stay. 

We shall new shadows make the other way. 

As the first were made to blind 

Others, these which come behind 

Will work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes, 
If our loves faint, and westwardly decline. 
To me thou falsely thine. 

And I to thee mine actions shall disguise. 
The morning shadows wear away. 
But these grow longer all the day ; 
But, oh ! love's day is short, if love decay. 

Love is a growing or full constant light. 
And his short minute, after noon, is night. 

John Donne. 



|)l)illi5o onb (EorBbon. 

In the merrie moneth of Maye, 
In a morne by break of daye. 
With a troupe of damseUs playing. 
Forth I yode forsooth a-maying ; 

Where anon by a wood side, 
Whenas Maye was in his pride, 
I espied all alone 
Phillida and Corydon. 

Much adoe there was, God wot ; 
He wold love, and she wold not. 
She sayd never man was trewe ; 
He sayes none was false to you. 



248 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



He sayde hee had lovde her longe ; 
She sayes love should have no wronge. 
Corydon wold kisse her then ; 
She sayes maids must kisse no men, 

Tyll they doe for good and aU. 
When she made the shepperde call 
All the heavens to wytnes truthe, 
Never loved a truer youthe. 

Then with many a prettie othe, 
Yea and naye, and faithe and trothe — 
Such as seelie shepperdes use 
When they wiU not love abuse — 

Love, that had bene long deluded, 
Was with kisses sweete concluded ; 
And PhUlida with garlands gaye 
Was made the ladye of the Maye. 

Nicholas Bketon. 



erije toljitc Kose. 



SENT BY A YORKISH LOVER TO HIS LANCASTRIAN 
MISTRESS. 

If this fair rose offend thy sight, 

Placed in thy bosom bare, 
'Twill blush to find itself less white. 

And turn Lancastrian there. 

But if thy ruby lip it spy, 
As kiss it thou mayest deign, 

With envy pale 'twill lose its dye. 
And Yorkish turn again. 

William Congbbvb and William Somerville. 



Cotje is a, Sickness. 

Love is a sickness full of woes. 

All remedies refusing ; 
A plant that most with cutting grows. 
Most barren with best using. 
Why so f 
More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
Heigh-ho ! 



Love is a torment of the mind, 

A tempest everlasting ; 
And Jove hath made it of a kind. 
Not well, nor full, nor fasting. 
Why so ? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
Heigh-ho ! 

Samxtel Dahux. 



Striutttpl) ot Cljaris. 

See the chariot at hand here of Love ! 

Wherein my lady rideth ! 
Each that draws is a swan, or a dove, 

And well the car Love guideth. 
As she goes, all hearts do duty 

Unto her beauty. 
And, enamored, do wish, so they might 

But enjoy such a sight. 
That they stiU were to run by her side 
Through swords, through seas, whither she 
would ride. 

Do but look on her eyes ! they do light 

All that Love's world compriseth ; 
Do but look on her hair ! it is bright 

As Love's star when it riseth ! 
Do but mark, her forehead 's smoother 
Than words that soothe her ! 
And from her arched brows such a grace 
Sheds itself through the face. 
As alone there triumphs to the life, 
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' 
strife. 

Have you seen but a bright lily grow. 
Before rude hands have touched it ? 
Have you marked but the fall of the snow, 

Before the soil hath smutched it ? 
Have you felt the wool of the beaver ? 

Or swan's down ever ? 
Or have smelt o' the bud of the brier? 

Or the nard i' the fire ? 
Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? 
Oh, so white ! oh, so soft ! oh, so sweet is she. 

Ben Jonson. 



DISCOURSE WITH CUPID. 249 




Which you call my shafts. And see ! 


®cU Mz, ma ^zaxt. 


Such my mother's blushes be. 


When Delia on the plain appears, 
Awed by a thousand tender fears, 
I would approach, but dare not move : 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 


As the bath your verse discloses 

In her cheeks of milk and roses ; 

Such as oft I wanton in. 

And above her even chin. 

Have you placed the bank of kisses 


Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear 
No other voice but hers can hear, 
No other wit but hers approve : 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 


Where, you say, men gather blisses. 
Ripened with a breath more sweet. 
Than when flowers and west winds meet. 
Nay, her white and polished neck, 
With the lace that doth it deck, 


If she some other youth commend, 
Though I was once his fondest friend. 
His instant enemy I prove : 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 


Is my mother's ! hearts of slain 
Lovers, made into a chain ! 
And between each rising breast 
Lies the valley called my nest. 
Where I sit and proyne my wings 


When she is absent, I no more 


After flight ; and put new strings 


Delight in all that pleased before, 


To my shafts ! Her very name, 


The clearest spring, the shadiest grove : 


With my mother's is the same." 


Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 


" I confess all," I replied. 




" And the glass hangs by her side, 


When, fond of power, of beauty vain, 


And the girdle 'bout her waist. 


Her nets she spread for every swain. 


All is Venus ; save unchaste. 


I strove to hate, but vainly strove : 


But, alas ! thou seest the least 


Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 


Of her good, who is the best 


Lord Eyttelton. 


Of her sex ; but couldst thou, Love, 




Call to mind the forms that strove 




For the apple, and those three 


JDisrourse will) ffinpib. 


Make in one, the same were she. 
For this beauty still doth hide 


Noblest Charis, you that are 


Something more than thou hast spied. 


Both my fortune and my star ! 


Outward grace weak Love beguiles : 


And do govern more my blood. 


She is Venus when she smiles. 


Than the various moon the flood ! 


But she's Juno when she walks. 


Hear what late discourse of you 


And Minerva when she talks." 


Love and I have had ; and true. 


Ben Jonson. 


'Mongst my muses finding me, 




Where he chanced your name to see 




Set, and to this softer strain : 
" Sure," said he, " if I have brain. 


(Eo €elio. 


This here sung can be no other 


Drink to me only with thine eyes, 


By description, but my mother ! 


And I will pledge with mine ; 


So hath Homer praised her hair ; 


Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 


So Anacreon drawn the air 


And I'll not look for wine. 


Of her face, and made to rise. 


The thirst that from the soul doth rise 


Just about her sparkling eyes. 


Doth ask a drink divine ; 


Both her brows, bent like my bow. 


But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 


By her looks I do her know. 


I would not change for thine. 



250 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honoring thee. 
As giving it a hope that there 

It could not withered be. 
But thou thereon didst only breathe. 

And sent'st it back to me ; 
Since when, it grows, and smeUs, I swear. 

Not of itself, but thee. 

Philostratus. (Greek.) 
Translation of Ben Jonson. 



Song. 

She is not fair to outward view 

As many maidens be, 
Her loveliness I never knew_ 

UntU she smUed on me ; 
Oh ! then I saw her eye was bright, 
A well of love, a spring of light. 

But now her looks are coy and cold, 

To mine they ne'er reply. 
And yet I cease not to behold 

The love-light in her eye : 
Her very frowns are fairer far. 
Than smiles of other maidens are. 

Hartley Coleridgb. 



jLoBC iHc £ittle, torn JHe Cong. 

Love me little, love me long. 
Is the burden of my song. 
Love that is too hot and strong 

Burneth soon to waste. 
Still I would not have thee cold. 
Not too backward or too bold ; 
Love that lasteth till 'tis old 

Fadeth not in haste. 

If thou lovest me too much, 
'Twill not prove as true as touch ; 
Love me little, more than such. 

For I fear the end. 
I'm with little well content. 
And a little from thee sent 
Is enough, with true intent. 

To be steadfast friend. 



Say thou lov'st me while thou live, 
I to thee my love will give. 
Never dreaming to deceive 

While that life endures : 
Nay, and after death, in sooth, 
I to thee wUl keep my truth 
As now, in my May of youth, 

This my love assures. 

Constant love is moderate ever. 
And it will through life persever ; 
Give me that, with true endeavor 

I will it restore ; 
A suit of durance let it be 
For all weathers ; that for me. 
For the land or for the sea. 

Lasting evermore. 

Winter's cold or Summer's heat. 
Autumn's tempests on it beat. 
It can never know defeat. 

Never can rebel : 
Such the love that I would gain. 
Such the love, I tell thee plain. 
Thou must give, or woo in vain — 

So to thee farewell ! 

Anontmous. 



Sljall Jf adl? 

Shall I tell you whom I love f 
Hearken then a while to me ; 

And if such a woman move 
As I now shall versify. 

Be assured 'tis she or none. 

That 1 love, and love alone. 

Nature did her so much right 
As she scorns the help of art. 

In as many virtues dight 
As e'er yet embraced a heart. 

So much good so truly tried. 

Some for less were deified. 

Wit she hath, without desire 

To make known how much she hath ; 
And her anger flames no higher 

Than may fitly sweeten wrath. 
Full of pity as may be. 
Though perhaps not so to me. 



1 



A MATCH. 251 


Reason masters every sense, 


Oh, then speak, thou fairest fair ! 


And her virtues grace her birth ; 


Kill not him that vows to serve thee ; 


Lovely as all excellence, 


But perfume this neighboring air, 


Modest in her most of mirth. 


Else dull silence, sure, will starve me ; 


Likelihood enough to prove 


'Tis a word that 's quickly spoken. 


Only worth could kindle love. 


Which, being restrained, a heart is broken. 




Beaumont and Fletcher. 


Such she is ; and if you know 




Such a one as I have sung ; 




Be she brown, or fair, or so 


a itlotcl). 


That she be but somewhat young ; 




Be assured 'tis she, or none, 


If love were what the rose is, 


That I love, and love alone. 


And I were like the leaf. 


William Browne. 


Our lives would grow together 




In sad or singing weather. 




Blown fields or flowerful closes. 




Green pleasure or gray grief ; 


J3caut2 (Elear anb £a.\x. 


If love were what the rose is, 




And I were like the leaf. 


Beauty clear and fair, 




Where the air 


If I were what the words are. 


Rather like a perfume dwells ; 


And love were like the tune. 


Where the violet and the rose 


With double sound and single 


Their blue veins in blush disclose. 


Delight our lips would mingle, 


And come to honor nothing else ; 


With kisses glad as birds are 




That get sweet rain at noon ; 


■WTiere to live near. 


If I were what the words are. 


And planted there, 


And love were like the tune. 


Is to live, and still live new ; 




Where to gain a favor is 


If you were life, my darling. 


More than light, perpetual bliss, — 


And I, your love, were death, 


Make me live by serving you ! 


We'd shine and snow together 




Ere March made sweet the weather 


Dear, again back recall 


With daffodil and starling. 


To this light 


, And hours of fruitful breath ; 


A stranger to himself and all ; 


If you were life, my darling. 


Both the wonder and the story 


And I, yoiir love, were death. 


Shall be yours, and eke the glory ; 




1 am your servant, and your thrall. 


If you were thrall to sorrow. 


Beaumont and Fletcher. 


And I were page to joy. 




We'd play for lives and seasons, 




With loving looks and treasons. 




And tears of night and morrow, 


Speak, Cotjc ! 


And laughs of maid and boy ; 




If you were thrall to sorrow. 


Dearest, do not delay me. 


And I were page to joy. 


Since, thou knowest, I must be gone ; 




Wind and tide, 'tis thought, do stay me ; 


If you were April's lady, 


But 'tis wind that must be blown 


And I were lord in May, 


From that breath, whose native smell 


We'd throw with leaves for hours, 


Indian odors far excel. 


And draw for days with flowers, 



252 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Till day like night were shady, 
And night were bright like day ; 

If you were April's lady, 
And I were lord in May. 

If you were queen of pleasure, 

And I were king of pain. 
We'd hunt down Love together, 
Pluck out his flying-feather. 
And teach his feet a measure. 

And find his mouth a rein ; 
If you were queen of pleasure, 

And I were king of pain. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



Sake, ol) ! toke tl)ose iLi^is axaa^. 

Take, oh ! take those lips away 
That so sweetly were forsworn. 

And those eyes, the break of day. 
Lights that do mislead the morn ! 

But my kisses bring again. 

Seals of love, though sealed in vain. 

Hide, oh ! hide those hiUs of snow 
Which thy frozen bosom bears. 

On whose tops the pinks that grow 
Are of those that April wears. 

But first set my poor heart free, 

Bound in those icy chains by thee. 

Shakespeare and John Fletcher. 



^ott itt^oner JBcautics. 

You meaner beauties of the night. 
That poorly satisfy our eyes 

More by your number than your light. 
You common people of the skies. 
What are you when the moon shall rise ? 

You curious chanters of the wood. 
That warble forth dame Nature's lays, 

Thinking your passions understood 
By your weak accents, what's your praise 
When Philomel her voice shall raise? 



You violets that first appear, 
By your pure purple mantles known. 

Like the proud virgins of the year. 
As if the spring were all your own, 
What are you when the rose is blown ? 

So when my mistress shall be seen 
In form and beauty of her mind, 

By virtue first, then choice, a queen, 
Tell me, if she were not designed 
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind ? 

Sir Henry Wotton. 



Ye living lamps, by whose dear light 
The nightingale does sit so late. 

And, studying all the summer night. 
Her matchless songs does meditate ! 

Ye country comets, that portend 

No war, nor prince's funeral, 
Shining unto no other end 

Than to presage the grass's fall ! 

Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame 
To wandering mowers shows the way. 

That in the night have lost their aim. 
And after foolish fires do stray ! 

Your courteous lights in vain you waste. 

Since Juliana here is come : 
For she my mind hath so displaced, 

That I shall never find my home. 

Andrew Maryell. 



UNDER THE NAME OP THE LOST SHEPHERDESS. 

Among the myrtles as I walkt. 

Love and my sighs thus intertalkt : 

TeU me, said I, in deep distress, 

Wliere I may find my shepherdess. 

Thou fool, said Love, know'st thou not this ? 

In every thing that's sweet, she is. 

In yond' carnation go and seek, 

Where thou shalt find her lip and cheek ; 



k 



PANQLORY'S ^ 


WOOING SONG. 253 


In that enamelled pansy by, 


Every thing doth pass away ; 


There thou shalt have her curious eye ; 


There is danger in delay. 


In bloom of peach and rose's bud, 


Come, come gather then the rose, 


There waves the streamer of her blood. 


Gather it, or it you lose. 


'Tis true, said I ; and thereupon, 


All the sand of Tagus' shore 


I went to pluck them, one by one. 


Into my bosom casts his ore ; 


To make of parts an union ; 


All the valleys' swimming com 


But on a sudden all were gone. 


To my house is yearly borne ; 


At which I stopt ; said Love, these be 


Every grape of every vine 


The true resemblances of thee ; 


Is gladly bruised to make me wine ; 


For as these flowers, thy joys must die, 


While ten thousand kings, as proud 


And in the turning of an eye ; 


To carry up my train, have bowed ; 


And all thy hopes of her must wither. 


And a world of ladies send me, 


Like those short sweets ere knit together. 


In my chambers to attend me. 


KOBEET HeKBICK. 


All the stars in heaven that shine. 
And ten thousand more are mine. 




Only bend thy knee to me, 


IJanglora's tOooing Song. 


Thy wooing shall thy winning be. 

Giles Fletcher. 


Love is the blossom where there blows 




Every thing that lives or grows. 
Love doth make the heavens to move, 


dastara. 


And the sun doth burn in love. 
Love the strong and weak doth yoke, 
And makes the ivy climb the oak ; 
Under whose shadows lions wild. 


Like the violet, which alone 
Prospers in some happy shade, 

My Castara lives unknown. 
To no ruder eye betrayed ; 

For she's to herself untrue 


Softened by love, grow tame and mild. 


Love no med'cine can appease ; 
He burns the fishes in the seas ; 


Who delights i' the public view. 


Not all the skill his wounds can stench ; 


Such is her beauty as no arts 


Not all the sea his fire can quench. 


Have enriched with borrowed grace. 


Love did make the bloody spear 


Her high birth no pride imparts, 


Once a heavy coat to wear ; 


For she blushes in her place. 


While in his leaves there shrouded lay 


Folly boasts a glorious blood ; 


Sweet birds, for love that sing and play : 


She is noblest being good. 


And of all love's joyful fiame, 

I the bud and blossom am. 

Only bend thy knee to me, 

Thy wooing shall thy winning be. 


Cautious, she knew never yet 
What a wanton courtship meant ; 

Nor speaks loud to boast her wit, 
In her silence, eloquent. 


See, see the flowers that below 
Now as fresh as morning blow ; 


Of herself survey she takes, 

But 'tween men no difference makes. 


And of all, the virgin rose, 


She obeys with speedy will 


That as bright Aurora shows — 


Her grave parents' wise commands ; 


How they all unleaved die, 


And so innocent, that ill 


Losing their virginity : 


She nor acts, nor understands. 


Like unto a summer-shade. 


Women's feet inin still astray 


But now born, and now they fade. 


If to ill they know the way. 



354 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



She sails by that rock, the court, 

Where oft virtue splits her mast ; 
And retiredness thinks the port 
Where her fame may anchor cast. 
Virtue safely cannot sit 
Where vice is enthroned for wit. 

She holds that day's pleasure best 
Where sin waits not on delight ; 
Without mask, or ball, or feast. 
Sweetly spends a winter's night. 

O'er that darkness whence is thrust 
Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust. 

She her throne makes reason climb. 

While wild passions captive lie ; 
And each article of time. 

Her pure thoughts to heaven fly ; 
AU her vows religious be, 
And she vows her love to me. 

William Habington. 



TO JULIA. 

Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee. 
The shooting-starres attend thee. 

And the elves also. 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will-o'-th'-vvispe mislight thee. 
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee ; 

But on thy way. 

Not making stay. 
Since ghost there's none t' affright thee ! 

Let not the darke thee cumber ; 

What though the moon does slumber ? 
The stars of the night 
Will lend thee their light. 

Like tapers cleare, without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, ' 

Thus, thus to come unto me ; 

And when I shaU meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
My soule I'le pour into thee ! 

KOBEBT HeEEICK. 



(Eo £ucasta, 

ON GOING TO THE WARS. 

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde, 

That from the nunnerie 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde, 

To warre and armes I flee. 

True a new mistresse now I chase. 

The first foe in the field ; 
And with a stronger faith imbrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As you, too, should adore ; 
I could not love thee, deare, so much, 

Loved I not honor more. 

KicHARD Lovelace. 



JDisbain Returncb. 

He that loves a rosy cheek. 

Or a coral lip admires, 
Or from star-like eyes doth seek 

Fuel to maintain his fires. 
As old Time makes these decay. 
So his flames must waste away. 

But a smooth and steadfast mind. 
Gentle thoughts and calm desires. 

Hearts with equal love combined, 
Kindle never-dying fires. 

Where these are not, I despise 

Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. 

No tears, Celia, now shall win 
My resolved heart to return ; 

I have searched thy soul within, 
And find nought but pride and scorn ; 

I have learned thy arts, and now 

Can disdain as much as thou. 

Some power, in my revenge, convey 

That love to her I cast away ! 

Thomas Caeew. 



TO LUCASTA. 



255 



So ^ltl)ca— from |)rison. 

Whej? Love, with unconfined wings, 

Hovers within my gates, 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at my grates ; 
When I lie tangled in her hair 

And fettered to her eye. 
The birds that wanton in the air 

Klnow no such liberty. 

When flowing cups run swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with roses bound, 

Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep, 

When healths and draughts go free, 
Fishes, that tipple in the deep, 

KJnow no siich liberty. 

Wlien, like committed linnets I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty, 

And glories of my king ; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be, 
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage. 
If I have freedom in my love, 

And in my soul am free — 
Angels alone, that soar above. 

Enjoy such liberty. 

EicHAKD Lovelace. 



®o Ctica0ta. 

If to be absent were to be 
Away from thee ; 
Or that, when I am gone. 
You or I were alone ; 
Then, my Lucasta, might I crave 
Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave. 



But I'll not sigh one blast or gale 
To swell my sail. 
Or pay a tear to 'swage 
The foaming blue-god's rage ; 
For, whether he will let me pass 
Or no, I'm still as happy as I was. 

Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both. 
Our faith and troth. 
Like separated souls. 
All time and space controls : 
Above the highest sphere we meet. 
Unseen, unknown ; and greet as angels greet. 

So, then, we do anticipate- 
Our after-fate, 
And are alive i' th' skies, 
If thus our lips and eyes 
Can speak like spirits unconfined 
In heaven, their earthly bodies left behind. 
RicHABD Lovelace. 



^ Song. 

To thy lover. 

Dear, discover 
That sweet blush of thine that sharaeth 

(When those roses 

It discloses) 
All the flowers that nature nameth. 

In free air 

Flow thy hair. 
That no more Summer's best dresses 

Be beholden 

For their golden 
Locks, to Pboebus' flaming tresses. 

deliver 

Love his quiver ! 
From thy eyes he shoots his arrows, 

Where Apollo 

Cannot follow, 
Feathered with his mother's sparrows. 

envy not 
(That we die not) 



256 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Those dear lips, whose door encloses 

All the Graces 

In their places, 
Brother pearls, and sister roses. 

Prom these treasures 

Of ripe pleasures 
One bright smile to clear the weather ; 

Earth and heaven 

Thus made even. 
Both wiU be good friends together. 

The air does woo thee ; 

Winds cling to thee ; 
Might a word once fly from out thee, 

Storm and thunder 

Would sit under, 
And keep silence round about thee. 

But if nature's 

Common creatures 
So dear glories dare not borrow; 

Yet thy beauty 

Owes a duty 
To my loving, lingering sorrow. 

When, to end me, 

Death shall send me 
All his terrors to affright me ; 

Thine eyes' graces 

Gild their faces, 
And those terrors shall delight me. 

When my dying 

Life is flying. 
Those sweet airs that often slew me 

Shall revive me, 

Or reprieve me, 
And to many deaths renew me. 

KiCHARD CeASHAW. 



Song, • 

How should I your true love know 

From another one % 
By his cockle hat and staff. 

And his sandal shoon. 



He is dead and gone, lady. 

He is dead and gone ; 
At his head a grass-green turf. 

At his heels a stone. 

White his shroud as the mountain snow 

Larded with sweet flowers ; 
Which bewept to the grave did go 

With true-love showers. 

William Shakbsfeabe. 



%zi us Iviss anb |Jart. 

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part, — 
Nay, I have done, you get no more of me ; 

And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart. 
That thus so cleanly I myself can free ; 

Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, 
And when we meet at any time again, 

Be it not seen in either of our brows 
That we one jot of former love retain. 

Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath. 
When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies. 

When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, 
And Innocence is closing up his eyes, 

Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over. 

From death to life thou might'st him yet recover ! 

Michael Dbatton. 



Bong,' 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, 
When June is past, the fading rose ; 
For in your beauty's orient deep. 
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 

Ask me no more whither do stray 
The golden atoms of the day ; 
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich your hair. 

Ask me no more whither doth haste 
The nightingale when May is past ; 
For in your sweet, dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps warm her note. 



COME AWAY, DEATH. 257 


Ask me no more where those stars light 


Though love be sweet, learn this of me, 


That downwards fall in dead of night ; 


No sweet love but honesty. 


For in your eyes they sit, and there 


Robert Greene. 


Fixed become, as in their sphere. 




Ask me no more if east or west 
The phoenix builds her spicy nest ; 


(Eomc atDop, JDeatl). 


For unto you at last she flies, 


Come away, come away, death. 


And in your fragrant bosom dies. 


And in sad cypress let me be laid ! 


Thomas Caeew. 


Fly away, fly away, breath : 




I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 




My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, 


|)l)ilomcla's ®I>c 


Oh, prepare it ; 




My part of death no one so true 


THAT SHE SUNG IN HER AEBOR. 


Did share it. 


Sitting by a river's side 


Not a flower, not a flower sweet, 


"Where a silent stream did glide, 


On my black coffin let there be strown ; 


Muse 1 did of many things 


Not a friend, not a friend greet 


That the mind in quiet brings. 


My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. 


I 'gan think how some men deem 


A thousand, thousand sighs to save, 


Gold their god ; and some esteem 


Lay me. Oh ! where 


Honor is the chief content 


Sad true-love never find my grave, 


That to man in life is lent ; 


To weep there. 


And some others do contend 






William Shakespeare. 


Quiet none like to a friend. 




Others hold there is no wealth 




Compared to a perfect health ; 




Some man's mind in quiet stands 


8ri)e Somb. 


When he's lord of many lands. 


When, cruel fair one, I am slain 


But I did sigh, and said all this 
Was but a shade of perfect bliss : 


By thy disdain. 
And, as a trophy of thy scorn, 


And in my thoughts I did approve 


To some old tomb am borne, 


Nought so sweet as is true love. 
Love 'twixt lovers passeth these, 


Thy fetters must then- powers bequeath 
To those of death ; 


When mouth kisseth and heart 'grees — 


Nor can thy flame immortal burn, 
Like monumental fires within an urn : 


With folded arms and lips meeting. 


Each soul another sweetly greeting ; 
For by the breath the soul fleeteth. 


Thus freed from thy proud empire, I shall prove 
There is more liberty in death than love. 


And soul with soul in kissing meeteth. 




If love be so sweet a thing. 


And when forsaken lovers come 


That such happy bliss doth bring, 


To see my tomb. 


Happy is love's sugared thrall ; 


Take heed thou mix not with the crowd, 


But unhappy maidens all 


And, (as a victor) proud 


Who esteem your virgin blisses 


To view the spoils thy beauty made, 


Sweeter than a wife's sweet kisses. 


Press near my shade ; 


No such quiet to the mind 


Lest thy too cruel breath or name 


As true love with kisses kind ; 


Should fan my ashes back into a flame, 


But if a kiss prove unchaste. 


And thou, devoured by this revengful fire. 


Then is true love quite disgraced. 
^9 


His sacrifice, who died as thine, expire. 



258 POEMS OF LOVE. 


But if cold earth or marble must 


With groping hands that never clasp, and lips 


Conceal my dust, 


Calling in vain to ears that never hear. 


Whilst, hid in some dark ruins, I 


They seek each other all their weary days 


Dumb and forgotten lie, 


And die unsatisfied : and this is Fate. 


The pride of all thy victoi/y 


ANONTMOtrS. 


Will sleep with me ; 




And they who should attest thy glory, 




WiU or forget or not believe this story. 
Then to increase thy triumph, let me rest. 


tol)«n a;i)Ott ort Near itte. 


Since by thine eye slain, buried in thy breast. 


When thou art near me. 


Thomas Stanley. ' 


Sorrow seems to fly. 




And then I think, as well I may, 




That on this earth there is no one 


£oMe not iHe. 


More blest than I. 


Love not me for comely grace. 


But when thou leav'st me, 


For my pleasing eye or face, 
Nor for any outward part. 


Doubts and fears arise, 
And darkness reigns. 


No, nor for my constant heart ; 


Where all before was light. 


For those may fail or turn to ill, 


The sunshine of my soul 


So thou and I shall sever ; 


Is in those eyes, 


Keep therefore a true woman's eye, 


And when they leave me 


r J 1 

And love me still, but know not why. 


AH the world is night. 


So hast thou the same reason stiU 




To doat upon me ever. 


But when thou art near me. 


Anonymous. 


Sorrow seems to fly. 




And then I feel, as well I may. 




That on this earth there dwells not one 




So blest as I. 


£a\e. 


Lady John Scott. 


Two shall be born the whole wide world apart. 




And speak in different tongues, and have no 
thought 


Slje iltUk-iJloib's Song. 


Each of the other's being, and no heed ; 


THE SHEPHEED TO HIS LOVE. 


And these o'er unknown seas to unknown lands 






Come live with me, and be my love, 


Shall cross, escaping wreck, defying death ; 
And, all unconsciously, shape every act 
And bend each wandering step to this one 
end — 


And we will all the pleasures prove 
That vaUeys, groves, hills, and fields, 
Woods or steepy mountain yields. 


That one day out of darkness they shall meet 


There will we sit upon the rocks. 


And read life's meaning in each other's eyes. 


Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks 




By shallow rivers to whose falls 


And two shall walk some narrow way^of life. 


Melodious birds sing madrigals. 


So nearly side by side that should one turn 




Ever so little space to left or right 


There will I make thee beds of roses 


They needs must stand acknowledged face to 


With a thousand fragrant posies ; 


face. 


A cap of flowers, and a kirtle. 


And yet, with wistful eyes that never meet. 


Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. 



MY DEAR AND ONLY LOVE. 259 


A gown made of the finest wool, 




Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 


ilia iCDear anb ©nlQ toMt. 


Fur-lined slippers for the cold. 




With buckles of the purest gold ; 


PART FIRST. 


A belt of straw, and ivy buds, 


My dear and only love, I pray, 
This noble world of thee 


With coral clasps and amber studs ; 
And if these pleasures may thee move. 
Come live with me, and be my love. 




Be governed by no other sway 
But purest monarchic. 


For if confusion have a part. 


The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, 


Which virtuous souls abhore, 


For thy delight each May morning : 


And hold a synod in thy heart, 


If these delights thy mind may move, 


I'll never love thee more. 


Then live with me, and be my love. 




Chkistopher Mablowb. 


Like Alexander I will reign. 




And I will reign alone. 




My thoughts shall evermore disdain 


^\\z itlilk-illaib's iJlotlicr's !3lnstDcr. 


A rival on my throne. 
He either fears his fate too much, 


THE nymph's reply. 


Or his deserts are small. 




That puts it not unto the touch, 


If that the world and love were young, 


To win or lose it all. 


And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 




These pretty pleasures might me move 
To live with thee and be thy love. 


But I must rule and govern still 
And always give the law, 


But time drives flocks from field to fold, 


And have each subject at my will, 


When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold ; 


And all to stand ia awe. 


And Philomel becometh dumb, 


But 'gainst my battery if I find 


And all complain of cares to come. 


Thou shun'st the prize so sore 




As that thou set'st me up a blind, 


The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 


I'll never love thee more. 


To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 




A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 


If in the empire of thy heart. 


Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 


Where I should solely be. 




Another do pretend a part. 


Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses. 


And dares to vie with me ; 


Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies 


Or if committees thou erect. 


Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten — 


And go on such a score, 


In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 


I'll sing and laugh at thy neglect, 


Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, 


And never love thee more. 


Thy coral clasps and amber studs — 




All these in me no means can move 


But if thou wilt be constant then, 


To come to thee, and be thy love. 


And faithful of thy word, 




I'll make thee glorious by my pen. 


But could youth last, and love still breed, 


And famous by my sword. 


Had Joys no date, nor age no need. 


I'll serve thee in such noble ways 


Then those delights my mind might move 


Was never heard before ; 


To live with thee, and be thy love. 


I'll crown and deck thee all with bays, 


Sib Walter Kaleigh. 


And love thee evermore. 



260 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



PART SECOND. ' 

My dear and only love, take heed, 

Lest thou thyself expose. 
And let all longing lovers feed 

Upon such looks as those. 
A marble wall then build about, 

Beset without a door ; 
But if thou let thy heart fly out, 

I'll never love thee more. 

Let not their oaths, like volleys shot, 

Make any breach at all ; 
Nor smoothness of their language plot 

■ Which way to scale the wall ; 
Nor balls of wUd-flre love consume 

The shrine which I adore ; 
For if such smoke about thee fume, 

I'll never love thee more. 

I think thy virtues be too strong 

To suffer by surprise ; 
Those victualled by my love so long, 

The siege at length must rise, 
And leave thee ruled in that health 

And state thou wast before ; 
But if thou turn a commonwealth, 

I'll never love thee more. 

Or if by fraud, or by consent. 

Thy heart to mine come, 
I'll sound no trumpet as I wont. 

Nor march by tuck of drum ; 
But hold my arms, like ensigns, up. 

Thy falsehood to deplore, 
And bitterly wiU sigh and weep. 

And never love thee more. 

I'll do with thee as Nero did 

When Rome was set on fire, 
Not only all relief forbid. 

But to a hill retire. 
And scorn to shed a tear to see 

Thy spirit grown so poor ; 
But smiling sing, until I die, 

I'll never love thee more. 

Yet, for the love I bare thee once. 
Lest that thy name should die, 

A monument of marble-stone 
The truth shall testifle ; 



That every pilgrim passing by 

May pity and deplore 
My case, and read the reason why 

I can love thee no more. 

The golden laws of love shall be 

Upon this pillar hung, — 
A simple heart, a single eye, 

A true and constant tongue ; 
Let no man for more love pretend 

Than he has hearts in store ; 
True love begun shall never end ; 

Love one and love no more. 

Then shall thy heart be set by mine, 

But in far different case ; 
For mine was true, so was not thine, 

But lookt like Janus' face. 
For as the waves with every wind. 

So sail'st thou every shore. 
And leav'st my constant heart behind, — 

How can I love thee more ? 

My heart shall with the sun be fixed 

For constancy most strange, 
And thine shaU with the moon be mixed. 

Delighting ay in change. 
Thy beauty shined at first more bright. 

And woe is me therefore. 
That ever I found thy love so light 

I could love thee no more ! 

The misty mountains, smoking lakes, 

The rocks' resounding echo, 
The whistling wind that murmur makes, 

Shall with me sing hey ho ! 
The tossing seas, the tumbling boats, 

Tears dropping from each shore. 
Shall tune with me their turtle notes — 

I'll never love thee more. 

As doth the turtle, chaste and true, 

Her fellow's death regrete. 
And daily mourns for his adieu, 

And ne'er renews her mate ; 
So, though thy faith was never fast, 

Which grieves me wondrous sore, 
Yet I shall live in love so chaste, 

That I shall love no more. 



I 



WELC03IE, 


WELCOME. 261 


And when all gallants ride about 


Welcome, welcome, then I sing. 


These monuments to view, 


Far more welcome than the spring ; 


Whereon is written, in and out, 


He that parteth from you never, 


Thou traitorous and untrue ; 


Shall enjoy a spring for ever. 


Then in a passion they shall pause, 


William Beowne. 


And thus say, sighing sore. 




" Alas ! he had too just a cause 




Never to love thee more." 


jBkst as tl)e Itnmortol ®oirs. 


And when that tracing goddess Fame 


Blest as the immortal gods is he. 


From east to west shall flee, 


The youth who fondly sits by thee. 


She shall record it, to thy shame. 


And hears and sees thee all the while 


How thou hast loved me ; 


Softly speak, and sweetly smile. 


And how in odds our love was such 




As few have been before ; 


'Twas this deprived my soul of rest. 


Thou loved too many, and I too much, 


And raised such tumults in my breast : 


So I can love no more. 


For while I gazed, in transport tost. 




My breath was gone, my voice was lost ; 


James Graham, Makquis or Montbose. 


J O J tl ' 




My bosom glowed ; the subtle flame 




Ran quick through all my vital frame : 


tockome, tockome. 


O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung ; 




My ears with hollow murmurs rung ; 


Welcome, welcome, do I sing, 




Far more welcome than the spring ; 
He that parteth from you never. 
Shall enjoy a spring for ever. 


In dewy damps my limbs were chilled ; 


My blood with gentle horrors thrilled ; 
My feeble pulse forgot to play — 
I fainted, sunk, and died away. 


Love, that to the voice is near, 


Sappho. (Greek.) 


Breaking from your ivory pale, 


Translation of Ambrose Philips. 


Need not walk abroad to hear 




The delightful nightingale. 






Hulnasot^, tns l^cinbeer. 


Love, that still looks on your eyes, 




Though the winter have begun 


A LAPLAND SONG. 


To benumb our arteries. 


KuLNASATZ, my reindeer. 


Shall not want the summer's sun. 


We have a long journey to go ; 


Love, that still may see your cheeks. 


The moors are vast. 


Where all rareness still reposes, 


And we must haste. 


Is a fool if e'er he seeks 


Our strength, I fear. 


Other lilies, other roses. 


Will fail, if we are slow ; 




And so 


Love, to whom your soft lip yields. 


Our songs will do. 


And perceives your breath in kissing, 




All the odors of the fields, 


Kaige, the watery moor, 


Never, never shall be missing. 


Is pleasant unto me. 




Though long it be, 


Love, that question would anew 


Since it doth to my mistress lead. 


What fair Eden was of old, 


Whom I adore ; 


Let him rightly study you. 


The Kilwa moor 


And a brief of that behold. 


I ne'er again will tread. 



262 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Thoughts filled my mind, 
"Whilst I through Kaige passed 
Swift as the wind, 
And my desire 
Winged with impatient fire ; 
My reindeer, let us haste ! 

So shall we quickly end our pleasing pain — 

Behold my mistress there. 
With decent motion walking o'er the plain. 
Kulnasatz, my reindeer, 
Look yonder, where 

She washes in the lake ! 
See, while she swims, 
The water from her purer limbs 
New clearness take ! 

AHONTMOirS. 



Cincs to an Inbian ^ir. 

I ARISE from dreams of thee 

In the first sweet sleep of night. 
When the winds are breathing low. 

And the stars are shining bright ; 
I arise from dreams of thee, 

And a spirit in my feet 
Has led me — who knows how? 

To thy chamber window, sweet ! 

The wandering airs, they faint 

On the dark the silent stream ; 
The champak odors fail 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 
The nightingale's complaint. 

It dies upon her heart, 
As I must die on thine. 

Beloved as thou art ! 

Oh, lift me from the grass ! 

I die, I faint, I fail ! 
Let thy love in kisses rain 

On my lips and eyelids pale. 
My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 

My heart beats loud and fast ; 
Oh, press it close to thine again. 

Where it will break at last I 

Peect Btsshb Shelley. 



Mavb of ^tljens, zt& tat |)art. 

Maid of Athens, ere we part. 
Give, oh, give me back my heart ! 
Or, since that has left my breast. 
Keep it now, and take the rest I 
Hear my vow before I go, 
ZciiT) fUiv, ads ayaira. 

By those tresses unconfined. 
Wooed by each ^gean wind ; 
By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
Zdri lioD, ffis aryairii. 

By that lip I long to taste ; 
By that zone-encircled waist ; 
By aU the token-flowers that tell 
What words can never speak so well ; 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 
Zdri fiov, <rds ayairw. 

Maid of Athens ! I am gone. 

Think of me, sweet, when alone. 

Though I fly to Istambol, 

Athens holds my heart and soul. 

Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 

Zdir] fiov, ads ayatrii. 

Lord Bteon. 



Sonnet 

The might of one fair face sublimes my love, 
For it hath weaned my heart from low desires ; 
Nor death I need, nor purgatorial fires. 

Thy beauty, antepast of joys above, 

Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve ; 
For oh ! how good, how beautiful, must be 
The God that made so good a thing as thee, 

So fair an image of the heavenly Dove. 

Forgive me if I cannot turn away 
From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven, 
For they are guiding stars, benignly given 

To tempt my footsteps to the upward way ; 
And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight, 
I live and love in God's peculiar light. 

HicEEL Anqelo. (Italian.) 

Translation of J. E. Tatlor. 




lUISQi; (KIMJL lU'jif' 'Lle^JlDJIKc 



THE GIRL OF CADIZ. 



263 



Code's |)l)iloso^]l)a. 

The fountains mingle with the riTer, 

And the rivers with the ocean ; 
The winds of heaven mix for ever, 

With a sweet emotion ; 
Nothing in the world is single ; 

All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle — 

Why not I with thine f 

See the mountains kiss high heaven, 

And the waves clasp one another ; 
No sister jdower would be forgiven 

If it disdained its brother ; 
And the sunlight clasps the earth, 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea. 
What are all these kissings worth. 

If thou kiss not me ? 

Febcy Bysshs Shelley. 



a;[)c ®irl of Cabi^. 

Oh, never talk again to me 

Of northern clitaes and British ladies ; 
It has not been your lot to see 

Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. 
Although her eyes be not of blue, 

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses'. 
How far its own expressive hue 

The languid azure eye surpasses ! 

Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole 

The fire that through those silken lashes 
In darkest glances seems to roll, 

From eyes that cannot hide their flashes ; 
And as along her bosom steal 

In lengthened flow her raven tresses. 
You'd swear each clustering lock could feel. 

And curled to give her neck caresses. 

Our English maids are long to woo. 

And frigid even in possession ; 
And if their charms be fair to view. 

Their lips are slow at love's confession ; 
But, born beneath a brighter sun, 

For love ordained the Spanish maid is. 
And who, when fondly, fairly won. 

Enchants you like the girl of Cadiz ? 



The Spanish maid is no coquette. 

Nor joys to see a lover tremble ; 
And if she love, or if she hate. 

Alike she knows not to dissemble. 
Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold — 

Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely ; 
And, though it will not bend to gold, 

'TwiU love you long, and love you dearly. 

The Spanish girl that meets your love 

Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial ; 
For every thought is bent to prove 

Her passion in the hour of trial. 
When thronging foemen menace Spain, 

She dares the deed and shares the danger ; 
And should her lover press the plain, 

She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 

And when, beneath the evening star. 

She mingles in the gay bolero ; 
Or sings to her attuned guitar 

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero ; 
Or counts her beads with fairy hand 

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper ; 
Or joins devotion's choral band 

To chant the sweet and hallowed vesper : 

In each her charms the heart must move 

Of aU who venture to behold her. 
Then let not maids less fair reprove, 

Because her bosom is not colder ; 
Through many a clime 'tis mine to roam 

Where many a soft and melting maid is, 
But none abroad, and few at home. 

May match the dark-eyed girl of Cadiz. 

Lord Byron. 



One word is too often profaned 

For me to profane it. 
One feeling too falsely disdained 

For thee to disdain it. 
One hope is too like despair. 

For prudence to smother, 
And pity from thee more dear 

Than that from another. 



264 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



I can give not what men call love, 

But wilt thou accept not 
The worship the heart lifts above 

And the heavens reject not : 
The desii'e of the moth for the star, 

Of the night for the morrow, 
The devotion to something afar 

From the sphere of our sorrow ? 

Percy Btsshe Shbixet. 



001X0. 

The heath this night must be my bed, 
The bracken curtain for my head. 
My lullaby the warder's tread, 

Far, far from love and thee, Mary ! 
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid. 
My couch may be my bloody plaid. 
My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid ! 

It will not waken me, Mary ! 

I may not, dare not, fancy now 

The grief that clouds thy lovely brow ; 

I dare not think upon thy vow, 

And all it promised me, Mary ! 
No fond regret must Norman know ; 
When bursts Clan- Alpine on the foe. 
His heart must be like bended bow. 

His foot like arrow free, Mary ! 

A time will come with feeling fraught ; 
For, if I fall in battle fought, 
Thy hapless lover's dying thought 

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary ! 
And if returned from conquered foes. 
How blithely wiU the evening close. 
How sweet the linnet sing repose 

To my young bride and me, Mary ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



0tan|os for ittnsic. , 

There be none of beauty's daughters 
With a magic like thee ; 

And like music on the waters 
Is thy sweet voice to me : 



When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmed ocean's pausing. 
The waves lie still and gleaming, 
And the lulled winds seem dreaming, 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep. 

Whose breast is gently heaving, 
As an infant's asleep ; 

So the spirit bows before thee. 

To listen and adore thee 

With a full but soft emotion, 

Like the swell of summer's ocean. 

Lord Btron. 



(E.a' tf)e ^omes to llje Unotues. 

Ca' the yowes to the Jcnowes, 
Ca' them where the heather grows, 
Ca' them where the burnie rows, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Haek the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang ; 
Then a faulding let us gang, 
My bonnie dearie. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side. 

Thro' the hazels spreading wide. 

O'er the waves that sweetly glide 

To the moon sae clearly. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine, midnight hours. 
O'er the dewy bending flowers. 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou 'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near. 
My bonnie dearie. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
I can die, but eanna part. 
My bonnie dearie. 



HERE 'S A HEALTH TO ANE I LO'E DEAR. 265 


While waters wimple to the sea, 


I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy — 


While day blinks in the lift sae hie, 


Naething could resist my Nancy : 


Till elay-eauld death shall blin' my ee. 


But to see her was to love her, 


Ye shall be my dearie. 


Love but her, and love for ever. 




Had we never loved sae kindly, 


Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 


Had we never loved sae blindly, 


Ca' them where the heather groivs, 


Never met — or never parted, 


Ca' them where the bumie rows, 


We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 


My bonnie dearie. 




Robert Burns. 






Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest I 




Pare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 


fere's a fealtl) to ^ne J lo'e beor. 


Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure I 


Here 's a health to ane I lo'e dear. 


Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! 


Here 's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 


Ae fareweel, alas ! for ever ! 


TIiou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, 


Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee ; 


And soft as the parting tear — Jessy ! 


Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 




KoBERT Burns. 


Altho' thou maun never be mine, 




Altho' even hope is denied, 




'Tis sweeter for thee despairing 




Than aught in the world beside — Jessy ! 


®l)cre'0 nan Curk obout tl)e ^ouse. 


I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day. 


And are ye sure the news is true ? 


As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms ; 


And are ye sure he's weel ? 


But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber. 


Is this a time to think of wark ? 


For then I am locked in thy arms— Jessy ! 


Ye jauds, fling by your wheel. 




Is this a time to think of wark, 


I guess by the dear angel smile, 


When Colin's at the door? 


I guess by the love-rolling ee ; 


Gie me my cloak ! I'U to the quay 


But why urge the tender confession 


And see him come ashore. 


'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree — Jessy! 






For there 's nae lucJc about the house, 


Here 's a health to ane I lo'e dear. 


There 's nae luck ava ; 


Here 's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 


There 's little pleasure in the house, 


TIiou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, 


When our gudeman's awa'. 


And soft as the parting tear — Jessy ! 




EoEBRT Burns. 


Rise up and mak' a clean fireside ; 




Put on the muckle pot ; 




Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown, 


iToretDcIl to 55'anca. 


And Jock his Sunday coat : 


And mak' their shoon as black as slaes, 


Ae fond kiss and then we sever ! 


Their hose as white as snaw ; 


Ae fareweel, alas ! for ever ! 


It's a' to please my ain gudeman, 


Deep in heart- wi-ung tears I'll pledge thee ; 


For he's been long awa'. 


Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 




Who shall say that fortune grieves him. 


There 's twa fat hens upon the bank, 


While the star of hope she leaves him f 


Been fed this month and mair ; 


Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 


Mak' haste and thraw their necks about. 


Dark despair around benights me. 


That Colin weel may fare ; 



266 POEMS OF LOVE. 


And mak' the table neat and clean, 




Gar ilka thing look braw ; 


a Heir, Eeb Eose. 


It's a' for love of my gudeman, 




For he's been long awa'. 


Oh, my luve 's like a red, red rose, 




That's newly sprung in June ; 




Oh, my luve 's like the melodic 


gi'e me down my bigonet, 


That's sweetly played in tune. 


My bishop satin gown, 




For I maun tell the bailie's wife 


As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 


That Colin 's come to town. 


So deep in luve am I ; 


My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on, 


And I wiU luve thee still, my dear, 


My hose o' pearl blue ; 


Till a' the seas gang dry — 


'Tis a' to please my ain gudeman, 




For he's baith leal and true. 


Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 




And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 


Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech. 


I wiU luve thee still, my dear, 


His breath 's like caller air ! 


While the sands of life shall run. 


His very foot has music in't, 




As he comes up the stair. 


And fare thee weel, my only luve ! 


And will I see his face again f 
And will I hear him speak ? ^ 


And fare thee weel a while I 


And I will come again, my luve. 


I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, — 


Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 


In troth, I'm like to greet. 


Egbert Bitrns. 


The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, 




That thrilled through my heart, 
They 're a' blown by ; I ha'e him safe. 


^\)z %am o' J3aUocl)m2le. 


TiU death we'll never part : 


'TwAs even — the dewy iields were green, 


But what puts parting in my head ? 


On every blade the pearls did hang ; 


It may be far awa' ; 


The zephyr wantoned round the bean 


The present moment is our ain, 


And bore its f ragi-ant sweets alang ; 


The neist we never saw. 


In every glen the mavis sang, 




All nature listening seemed the while, 


Since Colin 's weel, I'm weel content, 


Except where green-wood echoes rang 


1 ha'e nae more to crave ; 


Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle, 


Could I but live to mak' him blest. 




I'm blest above the lave : 


With careless step I onward strayed ; 


And will I see his face again ? 


My heart rejoiced in nature's joy ; 


And will I hear him speak ? 


"When musing in a lonely glade. 


I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,— 


A maiden fair I chanced to spy. 


In troth, I'm like to greet. 


Her look was like the morning's eye. 


For there 's nae luck about the house, 


Her air like nature's vernal smile ; 


There 's nae luck ava ; 


Perfection whispered, passing by, 


There 's little pleasure in the house. 


Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 


When our gudeman 's awa'. 






Fair is the morn in flowery May, 


Jean Adam. 


And sweet is night in autumn mild, 


. 


When roving thro' the garden gay, 




Or wandering in a lonely wild ; 



ANNIE LAURIE. 267 


But woman, nature's darling child ! 


Her voice is low and sweet. 


There all her charms she does compile ; 


And she's a' the world to me ; 


Ev'n there her other works are foiled 


And for bonnie Annie Laurie 


By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 


I'd lay me doune and dee. 




DOTTOIAS OF FlNGLANB. 


Oh, had she been a country maid, 




And I the happy country swain, 




Tho' sheltered in the lowest shed 


<a.iibrcs3 to Cabg. 


That ever rose in Scotland's plain, 


Thro' weary winter's wind and rain 


Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, 


With Joy, with rapture, I would toil, 


On yonder lea, on yonder lea; 


And nightly to my bosom strain 


My plaidie to the angry airt. 


The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 


I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 




Or did misfortune's bitter storms 


Then pride might climb the slippery steep 


Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 


Where fame and honors lofty shine ; 


Thy bield should be my bosom. 


And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 


To share it a', to share it a'. 


Or downward seek the Indian mine. 




Give me the cot below the pine, 


Or were I in the wildest waste. 


To tend the flocks or till the soil. 


Sae bleak and bare, sae bleak and bare. 


And every day have joys divine 


The desert were a paradise 


With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 


If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 


KoBERT Burns. 


Or were I monarch o' the globe. 




Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign ; 




The brightest jewel in my crown 


^nnk Caurie. 


Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 




Egbert Burns. 


Maxwelton braes are bonnie 




Where early fa's the dew. 




And it's there that Annie Laurie 


Wi)ou l)ast bomeb bg tl)S iTaitl), mg 


Gie'd me her promise true ; 


Seanic. 


Gie'd me her promise true, 




Which ne'er forgot will be ; 


Thou hast vowed by thy faith, my Jeanie, 


And for bonnie Annie Laurie 


By that pretty white hand o' thine. 


I'd lay me doune and dee. 


And by all the lowing stars in heaven, 




That thou wad aye be mine ! 


Her brow is like the snaw-drift ; 


And I have sworn by my faith, my Jeanie, 


Her throat is like the swan ; 


And by that kind heart o' thine. 


Her face it is the fairest 


By all the stars sown thick o'er heaven. 


That e'er the sun shone on ; 


That thou shalt aye be mine ! 


That e'er the sun shone on. 




And dark blue is her ee ; 


Then foul fa' the hands wad loose sic bands. 


And for bonnie Annie Laurie 


And the heart wad part sic love ; 


I'd lay me doune and dee. 


But there 's nae hand can loose the band, 




But the finger of Him above. 


Like dew on the gowan lying - 


Tho' the wee, wee cot maun be my bield. 


Is the fa' o' her fairy feet ; 


An' my clothing e'er so mean. 


Like the winds in summer sighing. 


I should lap up rich in the faulds of love, 


Her voice is low and sweet ; 
1 


Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean. 



368 POEMS OF LOVE. 


Her white arm wad be a pillow to me, 


Return again, fair Leslie ! 


Par softer than the down ; 


Return to Caledonie ! 


And Love wad winnow o'er us, his kind, kind 


That we may brag we hae a lass 


wings. 


There's nane again sae bonnie. 


And sweetly we'd sleep, an' soun'. 


KoBEKT Burns. 


Come here to me, thou lass whom I love. 




Come here and kneel wi' me ; 




The morn is full of the presence of God, 


£a\x Jucs. 


And I eanna pray without thee. 






Oh saw ye not fan- Ines ? 


The morn-wind is sweet amang the new flow- 


She's gone into the west. 


ers, 


To dazzle when the sun is down, 


The wee birds sing saft on the tree ; 


And rob the world of rest ; 


Our gudeman sits in the bonnie sunshine. 


She took our daylight with her. 


And a blithe old bodie is he. 


The smiles that we love best. 


The Beuk maun be ta'en whan he comes hame, 


With morning blushes on her cheek. 


Wi' the holy psalmodie ; 


And pearls upon her breast. 


And I will speak of thee whan I pray. 




And thou maun speak of me. 


Oh turn again, fair Ines, 


Allan Cunningham. 


Before the fall of night, 




For fear the moon should shine alone, 




And stars unrivalled bright ; 




And blessed will the lover be 


JBonnie iDcslie. 


That walks beneath their light. 




And breathes the love against thy cheek 


Oh saw ye bonnie Leslie 


I dare not even write ! 


As she gaed o'er the border ? 




She's gane, like Alexander, 


Would I had been, fair Ines, 


To spread her conquests further. 


That gallant cavalier 




Who rode so gayly by thy side, 


To see her is to love her. 


And whispered thee so near ! 


And love but her for ever ; 


Were there no bonny dames at home. 


For nature made her what she is, 


Or no true lovers here. 


And ne'er made sic anither. 


That he should cross the seas to win 




The dearest of the dear ? 


Thou art a queen, fair Leslie — 




Thy subjects we, before thee ; 


I saw thee, lovely Ines, 


Thou art divine, fair Leslie — 


Descend along the shore, 


The hearts o' men adore thee. 


With bands of noble gentlemen. 




And banners waved before ; 


The deil he could na scaith thee, 


And gentle youth and maidens gay. 


^ Or aught that wad belang thee ; 


And snowy plumes they wore ; 


He'd look into thy bonnie face. 


It would have been a beauteous dream, 


And say, " I canna wi-ang thee. " 


If it had been no more ! 


The powers aboon will tent thee ; 


Alas ! alas ! fair Ines ! 


Misfortune sha'na steer thee ; 


She went away with song, 


Thou 'rt like themselves sae lovely. 


With music waiting on her steps, 


That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 


And shoutings of the throng ; 



GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE! 269 


But some were sad, and felt no mirth, 


And, at night, when gazing 


But only music's wrong. 


On the gay hearth blazing, 


In sounds that sang Farewell, farewell ! 


Oh still remember me ! 


To her you've loved so long. 


Then should music, stealing 




All the soul of feeling. 


Farewell, farewell, fair Ines ! 


To thy heart appealing. 


That vessel never bore 


Draw one tear from thee. 


So fair a lady on its deck, 


Then let memory bring thee 


Nor danced so light before. 


Strains I used to sing thee ; 


Alas for pleasure on the sea. 


Oh then remember me I 


And sorrow on the shore ! 


Thomas Moobb. 


The smile that blest one lover's heart 




Has broken many more ! 




Thomas Hood. 


iTlg to tl)c '^ZBtxX. 




Fly to the desert, fly with me ! 


®o va\)txe (Slorg tnaits ^\\z&\ 


Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; 


But, oh ! the choice what heart can doubt, 


Go where glory waits thee ; 


Of tents with love, or thrones without ? 


But, while fame elates thee, 




Oh stUl remember me I 


Our rocks are rough ; but smiling there 


When the praise thou meetest 


The acacia waves her yellow hair. 


To thine ear is sweetest. 


Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less 


Oh then remember me ! 


For flowering in a wilderness. 


Other arms may press thee, 




Dearer friends caress thee. 


Our sands are bare ; but down their slope 


All the joys that bless thee 


The silvery-footed antelope 


Sweeter far may be ; 


As gracefully and gayly springs 


But when friends are nearest, 


As o'er the marble courts of kings. 


And when joys are dearest. 




Oh then remember me ! 


Then come ! thy Arab maid will be 




The loved and lone acacia-tree — 


When, at eve, thou rovest 


The antelope, whose feet shall bless 


By the star thou lovest, 


With their light sound thy loveliness. 


Oh then remember me ! 




Think, when home returning. 


Oh ! there are looks and tones that dart 


Bright we've seen it burning ; 


An instant sunshine through the heart. 


Oh thus remember me ! 


As if the soul that minute caught 


Oft as summer closes. 


Some treasure it through life had sought ; 


When thine eye reposes 




On its lingering roses. 


As if the very lips and eyes 


Once so loved by thee. 


Predestined to have all our sighs. 


Think of her who wove them, 


And never be forgot again, 


Her who made thee love them ; 


Sparkled and spoke before us then ! 


Oh then remember me ! 






So came thy every glance and tone. 


WTien, around thee dying, 


When first on me they breathed and shone ; 


Autumn leaves are lying. 


New as if brought from other spheres. 


Oh then remember me ! 


Yet welcome as if loved for years. 



270 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Then fly with me, — if thou hast known 
No other flame, nor falsely thrown 
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn 
Should ever in thy heart be worn ; 

Come, if the love thou hast for me 
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee. 
Fresh as the fountain under ground, 
When first 'tis by the lapwing found. 

But if for me thou dost forsake 
Some other maid and rudely break 
Her worshipped image from its base. 
To give to me the ruined place. 

Then, fare thee well ! I'd rather make 
My bower upon some icy lake 
When thawing suns begin to shine, 
Than trust to love so false as thine 1 

Thomas Moore. 



Cotjclg ifttarg ?D0nneUa. 

O LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best ! 
If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the 

rest; 
Be what it may the time of day, the place be where 

it will. 
Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before 

me still. 

Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a 

rock, 
How clear they are, how dark they are ! and they 

give me many a shock ; 
Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with 

a shower, 
Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in 

its power. 

Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows 

lifted up. 
Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a 

china cup ; 
Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so 

fine — 
It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a 

twine. 



The dance o' last Whit Monday night exceeded all 

before — 
No pretty girl for miles around was missing from 

the floor ; 
But Mary kept the belt of love, and oh ! but she 

was gay ; 
She danced a jig, she sung a song, and took my 

heart away ! 

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were 

so complete. 
The music nearly killed itself, to listen to her feet ; 
The fiddler mourned his blindness, he heard her so 

much praised ; 
But blessed himself he was n't deaf when once her 

voice she raised. 

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you 

sung; 
Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside 

my tongue. 
But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on 

both your hands. 
And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger 

stands. 

Oh, you're the flower of womankind, in country or 

in town; 
The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. 
If some great lord should come this way and see 

your beauty bright. 
And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. 

Oh, might we live together in lofty palace hall, 
Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains 

fall; 
Oh, might we live together in a cottage mean and 

small. 
With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only 

waU! 

0, lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my dis- 
tress — 

It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never 
wish it less ; 

The proudest place would fit your face, and I am 
poor and low, 

But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you 

may go ! 

William Allinqham. 



THE DULE'S P THIS BONNET 0' MINE. 



271 



Qri)e JDule's \ tl)is Bonnet o' mine. 

The dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine : 

My ribbins '11 never be reet ; 
Here, Mally, aw'm like to be fine, 

For Jamie '11 be comin' to-neet ; 
He met me i' th' lone t'other day 

(Aw wur gooin' for wayter to th' well), 
An' he begged that aw'd wed him i' May, 

Bi th' mass, if he'U let me, aw will ! 

When he took my two honds into his, 

Good Lord, heaw they trembled between, 
An' aw durst n't look up in his face, 

Becose on him seein' my e'en. 
My cheek went as red as a rose ; 

There's never a mortal con tell 
Heaw happy aw felt — for, thae knows, 

One couldn't ha' axed him theirsel'. 

But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung : 

To let it eawt would n't be reet. 
For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrung ; 

So aw towd him aw'd tell him to-neet. 
But, Mally, thae knows very weel. 

Though it is n't a thing one should own, 
Iv aw'd th' pikein' o' th' world to mysel', 

Aw'd oather ha' Jamie or noan. 

Neaw, Mally, aw've towd tho my mind ; 

What would to do iv 'twur thee ? 
" Aw'd tak him just while he're inclined, 

An' a farrantly bargain he'd be ; 
For Jamie's as gradely a lad 

As ever stept eawt into th' sun. 
Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed ; 

An' may th' best o' th' job when it's done ! " 

Eh, dear ! but it's time to be gwon : 

Aw should n't like Jamie to wait ; 
Aw connut for shame be too soon. 

An' aw would n't for th' world be too late. 
Aw'm o' ov a tremble to th' heel : 

Dost think 'at my bonnet '11 do ? 
" Be ofE, lass — thae looks very weel ; 

He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo ! " 

Edwin Waugh. 



^n JrisI) ittelobg. 

"Ah, sweet Kitty NeUl rise up from your 
wheel — 
Your neat little foot will be weary from spin- 
ning; 
Come, trip down with me to the sycamore-tree ; 
Half the parish is there, and the dance is begin- 
ning. 
The sun is gone down ; but the full harvest moon 
Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened 
valley ; 
While all the air rings with the soft, loving things 
Each little bird sings in the green shaded alley." 

With a blush and a smile Kitty rose up the while. 
Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, 
glancing ; 
'Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues, 
So she couldn't but choose to, go off to the 
dancing. 
And now on the green the glad groups are seen — 
Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choos- 
ing; 
And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty 
Neil — 
Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of 
refusing. 

Now Felix Magee puts Ms pipes to his knee. 
And, with flourish so free, sets each couple in 
motion ; 
With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter the 
ground — 
The maids move around just like swans on the 
ocean. 
Cheeks bright as the rose — feet light as the 
doe's — 
Now cosily retiring, now boldly advancing ; 
Search the world all around from the sky to the 
ground, 
No such sight can be found as an Irish lass 
dancing ! 

Sweet Kate ! who could view your bright eyes of 
deep blue. 
Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so , 
mildly — 



272 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded 

form — 

Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb 

wildly? 

Poor Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart, 

Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet 

love; 

The sight leaves his eye as he cries with a sigh, 

" Dance light, for my heart it lies under your 

feet, love ! " 

John Francis "Walleb. 



Song. 

Love me if I live I 

Love me if I die ! 
What to me is life or death, 

So that thou be nigh ? 

Once I loved thee rich, 

Now I love thee poor ; 
Ah ! what is there I could not 

For thy sake endure ? 

Kiss me for my love ! 

Pay me for my pain ! 
Come ! and murmur in my ear 

How thou lov'st again ! 

Bakry Cornwall. 



tOere S but l)is ©ran toife. 

Were I but his own wife, to guard and to guide him, 

'Tis little of sorrow should fall on my dear ; 
I'd chant my low love-verses, stealing beside him, 

So faint and so tender his heart would but hear ; 
I'd pull the wild blossoms from valley and highland ; 

And there at his feet I would lay them all down ; 
I'd sing him the songs of our poor stricken islandj 

Till his heart was on fire with a love like my own. 

There's a rose by his dwelling — I'd tend the lone 
treasure, , 

That he might have flowers when the summer 
would come ; 
There's a harp in his hall — I would wake its sweet 
measure, 
For he must have music to brighten his home. 



Were I but his own wife, to guide and to guard 
him, 
'Tis little of sorrow should fall on my dear ; 
For every kind glance my whole life would award 
him — 
In sickness I'd soothe and in sadness I'd cheer. 

My heart is a fount welling upward for ever, 
When I think of my true-love, by night or by 
day; 
That heart keeps its faith like a fast-flowing river 

Which gushes for ever and sings on its way. 
I have thoughts full of peace for his soul to re- 
pose in, 
Were I but his own wife, to win and to woo — 
Oh, sweet, if the night of misfortune were closing. 
To rise like the morning star, darling, for you ! 

Mart Downing. 



Come in the evening, or come in the morning — 
Come when you're looked for, or come without 

warning ; 
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, 
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore 
you! 
Light is my heart since the day we were pliglited ; 
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; 
The green of the trees looks far greener than 

ever, 
And the linnets are singing, " True lovers don't 
sever ! " 

I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose 

them ! 
Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my 

bosom ; 
I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire 

you; 
I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. 
Oh ! your step 's like the rain to the summer- 
vexed farmer, 
Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor; 
I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above 

me. 
Then, wandering, I'll wish you in silence to love 
me. 



C03IE INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. 



273 



We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the 

eyrie ; 
We'll tread round the rath on the track of the 

fairy ; 
We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, 
Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give 
her. 
Oh! she'll whisper you — "Love, as unchange- 
ably beaming. 
And trust, when in secret, most tunefully stream- 
ing; 
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver. 
And our souls flow in one down eternity's river." 

So come in the evening, or come in the morning ; 

Come when you're looked for, or come without 
warning ; 

Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you. 

And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore 

you! 

Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; 

Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted : 

The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, 

And the linnets are singing, " True lovers don't 

sever ! " 

Thomas Davis. 



dome into \\\t ©orlren, iHaub. 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
For the black bat, night, has flown ! 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone ! 

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad. 
And the musk of the roses blown. 

For a breeze of morning moves. 
And the planet of love is on high. 

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves. 
On a bed of daffodil sky. 

To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 
To faint in his light, and to die. 

All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
All night has the casement jessamine stirred 

To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird. 

And a hush with the setting moon. 



I said to the lily, " There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone, 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 

I said to the rose, " The brief night goes 

In babble and revel and wine. 
young lord-lover, what sighs are those, 

For one that wiU never be thine % 
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, 

" For ever and ever, mine ! " 

And the soul of the rose went into my blood, 

As the music clashed in the hall ; 
And long by the garden lake I stood. 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, 

Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet 
That whenever a March-wind sighs, 

He sets the jewel-print of your feet 
In violets blue as your eyes, 

To the woody hollows in which we meet, 
And the vaUeys of Paradise. 

The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake. 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; 
But the rose was awake all night for your sake, 

Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake. 

They sighed for the dawn and thee. 

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls. 
Come hither ! the dances are done ; 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls. 
Queen lily and rose in one ; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls. 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 

There has fallen a splendid tear 
From the passion-flower at the gate. 

She is coming, my dove, my dear, 
She is coming, my life, my fate ! 



274 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near ! "' 
And the white rose weeps, " She is late ! " 

The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear," 
And the lily whispers, " I wait." 

She is coming, my own, my sweet ! 

Were it ever so airy a tread. 
My heart would hear her and beat. 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead, 
Would start and tremble under her feet. 

And blossom in purple and red. 

Alfbed Tennyson. 



Summer Ullags. 

In summer, when the days were long. 
We walked together in the wood : 

Our heart was light, our step was strong ; 
Sweet iiutterings were there in our blood. 

In summer, when the days were long. 

We strayed from morn till evening came ; 

We gathered flowers, and wove us crowns ; 
We walked mid poppies red as flame. 

Or sat upon the yellow downs ; 
And always wished our life the same. 

In summer, when the days were long. 
We leaped the hedgerow, crossed the brook 

And still her voice flowed forth in song, 
Or else she read some graceful book, 

In summer, when the days were long. 

And then we sat beneath the trees, 
With shadows lessening in the noon ; 

And, in the sunlight and the breeze. 
We feasted, many a gorgeous June, 

While larks were singing o'er the leas. 

In summer, when the days were long. 
On dainty chicken, snow-white bread. 

We feasted, with no grace but song ; 
We plucked wild strawb'ries, ripe and red, 

In summer, when the days were long. 



We loved, and yet we knew it not. 
For loving seemed like breathing then ; 

We found a heaven in every spot ; 
Saw angels, too, in all good men ; 

And dreamed of God in grove and grot. 

In summer, when the days are long. 

Alone I wander, muse alone ; 
I see her not ; but that old song 

Under the fragrant wind is blown. 
In summer, when the days are long. 

Alone I wander in the wood ; 

But one fair spirit hears my sighs ; 

And half I see, so glad and good, 
The honest daylight of her eyes. 
That charmed me under earlier skies. 

In summer, when the days are long, 

I love her as we loved of old ; 
My heart is light, my step is strong ; 

For love brings back those hours of gold. 
In summer, when the days are long. 

Anonymous. 



% Summer Reminiscence. 

I HEAR no more the locust beat 

His shrill loud drum through all the day 
I miss the mingled odors sweet 

Of clover and of scented hay. 

No more I hear the smothered song 
From hedges guarded thick with thorn : 

The days grow brief, the nights are long. 
The light comes like a ghost at morn. 

I sit before my fire alone, 
And idly dream of all the past : 

I think of moments that are flown — 
Alas ! they were too sweet to last : 

The warmth that fiUed the languid noons. 
The purple waves of trembling haze, 

The liquid light of silver moons, 
The summer sunset's golden blaze. 



BUTE. 375 


I feel the soft winds fan my cheek, 


JPor when the mellow autumn flushed 


I hear them murmur through the rye, 


The thickets where the chestnut fell. 


I see the milky clouds that seek 


And in the vales the maple blushed. 


Some nameless harbor in the sky. 


Another came who knew her weU, 


The stile beside the spreading pine, 


Who sat with her below the pine. 


The pleasant fields beyond the grore, 


And with her through the meadow moved, 


The lawn where, imderneath the vine, 


And underneath the purpling vine 


She sang the song I used to love. 


She sang to him the song I loved. 




Nathaniel Graham Shepherd. 


The path along the windy beach, 




That leaves the shadowy linden-tree, 




And goes by sandy capes that reach 


Kntl). 


Their shining arms to clasp the sea. 




She stood breast high amid the corn, 


I view them all, I tread once more 


Clasped by the golden light of mom. 


In meadow-grasses cool and deep ; 


Like the sweetheart of the sun, 


I walk beside the soundmg shore. 


Who many a glowing kiss had won. 


I climb again the wooded steep. 






On her cheek an autumn flush 


Oh, happy hours of pure delight ! 


Deeply ripened ; such a blush 


Sweet moments drowned in wells of bliss ! 


In the midst of brown was born. 


Oh, halcyon days so calm and bright. 


Like red poppies grown with com. 


Each mom and evening seemed to kiss ! 






Round her eyes her tresses fell. 


And that whereon I saw her first, 


Which were blackest none could tell ; 


While angling in the noisy brook. 


But long lashes veiled a light 


When through the tangled wood she burst ; 


That had else been all too bright. 


In one small hand a glove and book, 






And her hat, with shady brim, 


As with the other, dimpled, white, 


Made her tressy forehead dim. 


She held the slender boughs aside. 


Thus she stood amid the stooks. 


WhUe through the leaves the yellow light 


Praising God with sweetest looks. 


Like golden water seemed to glide, 






Sure, I said. Heaven did not mean 


And broke iu ripples on her neck. 


Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; 


And played like fire around her hat. 


Lay thy sheaf adown and come, 


And slid adown her form to fleck 


Share my harvest and my home. 


The moss-grown rock on which I sat. 


Thomas Hood. 


She standing rapt in sweet surprise. 




And seeming doubtful if to turn ; 
Her novel, as I raised my eyes. 


^t tl)e ari)iirrl) (Sote. 


Dropped down amid the tall green fern. 


Although I enter not. 




Yet round about the spot 


This day and that — the one so bright, 


Ofttimes I hover ; 


The other like a thing forlorn ; 


And near the sacred gate, 


To-morrow, and the early light 


With longing eyes I wait, 


Will shine upon her marriage mom. 


Expectant of her. 



276 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



The minster bell tolls out 
Above the city's rout, 

And noise and humming. 
They've hushed the minster bell : 
The organ 'gins to swell ; 

She's coming, she's coming ! 

My lady comes at last, 
Timid and stepping fast, 

And hastening hither. 
With modest eyes downcast ; 
She comes — she's here, she's past! 

May heaven go with her ! 

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint ! 
Pour out your praise or plaint 

Meekly and duly ; 
I will not enter there, 
To sully your pure prayer 

With thoughts unruly. 

But suffer me to pace 
Bound the forbidden place, 

Lingering a minute. 
Like outcast spirits, who wait, 
And see, through heaven's gate, 

Angels within it. 

William Makepeace Thackbkat. 



01)e i0 a illaib of Artless ®race. 

She is a maid of artless grace. 
Gentle in form, and fair of face. 

Tell me, thou ancient mariner, 

That sail est on the sea, 
If ship, or sail, or evening star, 

Be half so fair as she ! 

TeU me, thou gallant cavalier, 

Whose shining arms I see. 
If steed, or sword, or battle-field. 

Be half so fair as she ! 

Tell me, thou swain that guard'st thy flock 

Beneath the shadowy tree, 
If flock, or vale, or mountain-ridge. 
Be half so fair as she ! 

Gil Vicente. (Portuguese.) 
Translation of H. W. Longfellow. 



ills £ot)c. 

Not as all other women are 

Is she that to my soul is dear ; 
Her glorious fancies come from far. 
Beneath the silver evening-star. 

And yet her heart is ever near. 

Great feelings hath she of her own, 
Which lesser souls may never know ; 

God giveth them to her alone. 

And sweet they are as any tone 
Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. 

Yet in herself she dwelleth not, 
Although no home were half so fair ; 

No simplest duty is forgot ; 

Life hath no dim and lowly spot 
That doth not in her sunshine share. 

She doeth little kindnesses. 

Which most leave undone, or despise ; 
For naught that sets one heart at ease, 
And giveth happiness or peace, 

Is low-esteemed in her eyes. 

She hath no scorn of common things ; 

And, though she seem of other birth. 
Round us her heart entwines and clings, 
And patiently she folds her wings . 

To tread the humble paths of earth. 

Blessing she is ; God made her so ; 

And deeds of week-day holiness 
Pall from her noiseless as the snow ; 
Nor hath she ever chanced to know 

That aught were easier than to bless. 

She is most fair, and thereunto 

Her life doth rightly harmonize ; 
Feeling or thought that was not true 
Ne'er made less beautiful the blue 
Unclouded heaven of her eyes. 

She is a woman — one in whom 

The spring-time of her childish years 
Hath never lost its fresh perfume, 
Though knowing well that life hath room 
For many blights and many tears. 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 2Ti 


I love her with a love as still 


Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break. 


As a broad river's peaceful might, 


And make this darkness gay. 


Which, by high tower and lowly mill, 


With looks whose brightness well might make 


Goes wandering at its own will, 


Of darker nights a day. 


And yet doth ever flow aright. 


Edwabd Coatb Pinknet. 


And, on its full, deep breast serene, 




Like quiet isles my duties lie ; 
It flows around them and between, 


a:i)e ittillcr's SDaugfjtcr. 


And makes them fresh and fair and green — 


It is the miUer's daughter, 


Sweet homes wherein to live and die. 


And she is grown so dear, so dear. 


jAlVfTIS KUSSELL LOWELL. 


That I would be the jewel 




That trembles at her ear ; 




For, hid in ringlets day and night. 


Setrenabe. 


I'd touch her neck so warm and white. 


Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how 


And I would be the girdle 


1 wake and passionate watches keep ; 


About her dainty, dainty waist. 


And yet, while I address thee now, 


And her heart would beat against me 


Methinks thou smUest in thy sleep. 


In sorrow and in rest ; 


'Tis sweet enough to make me weep. 


And I should know if it beat right, 


That tender thought of love and thee, 


I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 


That while the world is hushed so deep, 


And I would be the necklace. 


Thy soul 's perhaps awake to me ! 


And all day long to fall and rise 


Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep ! 
With golden visions for thy dower, 


Upon her balmy bosom 
With her laughter or her sighs ; 


While I this midnight vigil keep. 


And I would lie so Ught, so light, 


And bless thee in thy silent bower ; 


I scarce should be unclasped at night. 


To me 'tis sweeter than the power 


Alfred Tennyson. 


Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurled, 




That I alone, at this still hour. 




In patient love outwatch the world. 


9ri)e J3ro0k-sibe. 


Thomas Hood. 


I WANDERED by the brook-side, 




I wandered by the mUl ; 


Serenade. 


I could not hear the brook flow. 




The noisy wheel was still ; 


Look out upon the stars, my love, 


There was no burr of grasshopper, 


And shame them with thine eyes, 


No chirp of any bird. 


On which, than on the lights above, 


But the beating of my own heart 


There hang more destinies. 


Was all the sound I heard. 


Night's beauty is the harmony 

Of blending shades and light : 
Then, lady, up, — look out, and be 


I sat beneath the elm-tree ; 
I watched the long, long shade, 


7 J 7 JT' ' 

A sister to the night ! 


And as it grew still longer 


I did not feel afraid ; 


Sleep not ! — thine image wakes for aye 


For I listened for a footfall, 


Within my watching breast ; 


I listened for a word, 


Sleep not ! — from her soft sleep should fly, 


But the beating of my own heart 


Who robs all hearts of rest. 


Was all the sound I heard. 



278 *" POEMS ( 


OF LOVE. 


He came not, — no, he came not — 


Her every tone is music's own, 


The night came on alone. 


Like those of morning birds. 


The little stars sat one by one. 


And something more than melody 


Each on his golden throne ; 


Dwells ever in her words ; 


The evening wind passed by my cheek, 


The coinage of her heart are they, 


The leaves above were stirred, 


And from her lips each flows 


Biit the beating of my own heart 


As one may see the burdened bee 


Was all the sound I heard. 


Forth issue from the rose. 


Fast silent tears were flowing. 


Affections are as thoughts to her. 


When something stood behind ; 


The measures of her hours ; 


A hand was on my shoulder. 


Her feelings have the fragrancy. 


I knew its touch was kind : 


The freshness of young flowers ; 


It drew me nearer — nearer, 


And lovely passions, changing oft. 


We did not speak one word. 


So fill her, she appears 


For the beating of our own hearts 


The image of themselves by turns. 


Was all the soimd we heard. 


The idol of past years ! 


KiCHAED MONCKTON MlLNES. 






Of her bright face one glance will trace 




A picture on the brain, 


SallaJj. 


And of her voice in echoing hearts 


A sound must long remain ; 


It was not in the winter 


But memory, such as mine of her, 


Our loving lot was cast ; 


So very much endears, 


It was the time of roses, 


When death is nigh, my latest sigh 


We plucked them as we passed ! 


Will not be life's, but hers. 


That churlish season never frowned 


1 fill this cup to one made up 


On early lovers yet ! 


Of loveliness alone, 


Oh no, the world was newly crowned 


A woman, of her gentle sex 


With flowers when first we met. 


The seeming paragon. 




Her health ! and would on earth there stood 


'Twas twilight, and I bade you go. 


Some more of such a frame, 


But still you held me fast ; 


That life might be all poetry. 


It was the time of roses, 


And weariness a name. 


We plucked them as we passed ! 


Edwakd Coate Pinkney. 


Thomas Hood. 




% f ealtl). 


Cooc Song. 


I FILL this cup to one made up 


Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty 


Of loveliness alone. 


slumbers. 


A woman, of her gentle sex 


Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through her 


The seeming paragon ; ' 


hair! 


To whom the better elements 


Sleeps she, and hears not the melancholy num- 


And kindly stars have given 


bers 


A form so fair, that, like the air. 


Breathed to my sad lute amid the lonely 


'Tis less of earth than heaven. 


air! 



SYLVIA. 



279 



Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming 
To wind round the willow banks that lure him 
from above ; 

Oh that, in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, 
I, too, could glide to the bower of my love ! 

Ah, where the woodbines, with sleepy arms, have 
wound her. 
Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay. 
Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo 
round her, 
To her lost mate's caU in the forests far away ! 

Come, then, my bird ! for the peace thou ever 
bearest. 

Still Heaven's messenger of comfort to me — 
Come ! this fond bosom, my faithfulest, my fairest. 

Bleeds with its death- wound — but deeper yet 

for thee I 

George Daklet. 



I've taught thee love's sweet lesson o'er, 
A task that is not learned with tears : 
Was Sylvia e'er so blest before 
In her wild, solitary years ? 

Then what does he deserve, the youth 
Who made her con so dear a truth ? 

Till now in silent vales to roam. 

Singing vain songs to heedless flowers, 
Or watch the dashing billows foam. 
Amid thy lonely myrtle bowers — 
To weave light crowns of various hue — 
Were all the joys thy bosom knew. 

The wild bird, though most musical, 

Could not to thy sweet plaint reply ; 
The streamlet, and the waterfall, 
Could only weep when thou didst sigh ! 
Thou couldst not change one dulcet word. 
Either with billow or with bird. 

For leaves and flowers, but these alone, 
Winds have a soft, discoursing way ; 
Heaven's starry talk is all its own, 
It dies in thunder far away. 
E'en when thou wouldst the moon beguOe 
To speak, she only deigns to smile ! 



Now, birds and winds, be churlish still ! 

Ye waters, keep your sullen roar ! 
Stars, be as distant as ye will, — . 
Sylvia need court ye now no more : 
In love there is society 
She never yet could find with ye ! 

Geokge Dablet. 



Qrlje ^makening of C^nbgmion. 

Lone upon a mountain, the pine-trees wailing 

round him. 

Lone upon a mountain the Grecian youth is laid ; 

Sleep, mystic sleep, for many a year has bound him. 

Yet his beauty, like a statue's, pale and fair, is 

undecayed. 

When will he awaken ? 

When win he awaken f a loud voice hath been crying. 

Night after night, and the cry has been in vain ; 

Winds, woods, and waves found echoes for replying, 

But the tones of the beloved one were never 

heard again. 

When will he awaken ? 
Asked the midnight's silver queen. 

Never mortal eye has looked upon his sleeping ; 
Parents, kindred, comrades, have mourned for 
him as dead ; 
By day the gathered clouds have had him in their 
keeping, 
And at night the solemn shadows round his rest 
are shed. 

When wiU he awaken ? 

Long has been the cry of faithful love's imploring ; 
Long has hope been watching with soft eyes fixed 
above ; 
When will the fates, the life of life restoring. 
Own themselves vanquished by much enduring 
love? 

When will he awaken ? 
Asks the midnight's weary queen. 

Beautiful the sleep that she has watched untiring. 
Lighted up with visions from yonder radiant sky, 

Full of an immortal's glorious inspiring. 

Softened by the woman's meek and loving sigh. 
When will he awaken ? 



280 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



He has been dreaming of old heroic stories, 
And the poet's passionate world has entered in 
his soul ; 
He has grown conscious of life's ancestral glo- 
ries, 
When sages and when kings first upheld the 
mind's control. 

When will he awaken ? 
Asks the midnight's stately queen. 

Lo, the appointed midnight ! the present hour is 
fated ! 
It is Bndymion's planet that rises on the 
air; 
How long, how tenderly his goddess-love has 
waited. 
Waited with a love too mighty for despair ! 
Soon he will awaken. 

Soft amid the pines is a sound as if of sing- 
ing, 
Tones that seem the lute's from the breathing 
flowers depart ; 
Not a wind that wanders o'er Mount Latmos but 
is bringing 
Music that is murmured from nature's inmost 
heart. 

Soon he will awaken 
To his and midnight's queen ! 

Lovely is the green earth, — she knows the hour is 
holy; 
Starry are the heavens, lit with eternal joy ; 
Light like their own is dawning sweet and 
slowly 
O'er the fair and sculptured forehead of that 
yet dreaming boy. 

Soon he will awaken ! 

Red as the red rose towards the morning turn- ■ 
ing, 
Warms the youth's lip to the watcher's near his 
own; 
While the dark eyes open, bright, intense, and 
burning ' 

With a life more glorious than, ere they closed, 
was known. 

Yes, he has awakened 
For the midnight's happy queen ! 



What is this old history, but a lesson given, 
How true love still conquers by the deep 
strength of truth — 
How all the impulses, whose native home is heaven. 
Sanctify the visions of hope, and faith, and 
youth ? 

'Tis for such they waken ! 

When every worldly thought is utt^ly forsa- 
ken. 
Comes the starry midnight, felt by life's gifted 
few; 
Then will the spirit from its earthly sleep awa- 
ken 
To a being more intense, more spiritual, and 
true. 

So doth the soul awaken. 
Like that youth to night's fair queen ! 

Letitia Elizabeth Lanbon. 



Song. 

Sing the old song, amid the sounds dispersing 
That burden treasured in your hearts too long; 
Sing it with voice low-breathed, but never 
name her ; 
She will not hear you, in her turrets nursing 
High thoughts, too high to mate with mortal 
song — 
Bend o'er her, gentle heaven, but do not claim 
her! 

In twilight caves, and secret lonelinesses. 
She shades the bloom of her unearthly days ; 
The forest winds alone approach to woo her. 
Par ofE we catch the dark gleam of her tresses ; 
And wild birds haunt the wood-walks where she 
strays. 
Intelligible music warbling to her. 

That spirit charged to follow and defend her. 
He also, doubtless, suffers this love-pain ; 
And she perhaps is sad, hearing his sighing. 
And yet that face is not so sad as tender ; 

Like some sweet singer's, when her sweetest 
strain 
Prom the heaved heart is gradually dying ! 

AUEKET DE VERE. 



RIDING DOWN. 



381 



ISibing JDoron. 

Oh, did you see him riding down, 
And riding down, while all the town 
Came out to see, came out to see. 
And all the bells rang mad with glee ? 

Oh, did you hear those bells ring out, 
The bells ring out, the people shout, 
And did you hear that cheer on cheer 
That over all the bells rang clear i 

And did you see the waving flags. 

The fluttering flags, the tattered rags. 

Red, white, and blue, shot through and through, 

Baptized with battle's deadly dew f 

And did you hear the drums' gay beat, 
The drums' gay beat, the bugles sweet, 
The cymbals' clash, the cannons' crash. 
That rent the sky with sound and flash ? 

And did you see me waiting there, 
Just waiting there, and watching there, 
One little lass, amid the mass 
That pressed to see the hero pass? 

And did you see him smiling down. 
And smiling down, as riding down 
With slowest pace, with stately grace, 
He caught the vision of a face, — 

My face uplifted red and white, 
Turned red and white with sheer delight, 
To meet the eyes, the smiling eyes, 
Outflashing in their swift surprise ? 

Oh, did you see how swift it came. 
How swift it came like sudden flame, 
That smile to me, to only me. 
The little lass who blushed to see ? 

And at the windows all along, 
Oh all along, a lovely throng 
Of faces fail', beyond compare, 
Beamed out upon him riding there ! 

Each face was like a radiant gem, 
A sparkling gem, and yet for them 
No swift smile came, like sudden flame. 
No arrowy glance took certain aim. 



He turned away from all their grace, 
From all that grace of perfect face. 
He turned to me, to only me. 
The little lass who blushed to see. 

Nora Peeey. 



<a.bsence. 

What shall I do with all the days and hours 
That must be counted ere I see thy face ? 

How shall 1 charm the interval that lowers 
Between this time and that sweet time of grace ? 

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense. 
Weary with longing ? Shall I flee away 

Into past days, and with some fond pretence 
Cheat myself to forget the present day ? 

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin 
Of easting from me God's great gift of time ? 

Shall I, these mists of memory locked within. 
Leave and forget life's purposes sublime ? 

Oh, how, or by what means, may 1 contrive 
To bring the hour that brings thee back more 
near? 

How may I teach my drooping hope to live 
Until that blessed time and thou art here ? 

I'll tell thee ; for thy sake I will lay hold 
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee. 

In worthy deeds, each moment that is told, 
While thou, beloved one ! art far from me. 

For thee I wDl arouse my thoughts to try 
All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains ; 

For thy dear sake I will walk patiently 

Through these long hours, nor call their minutes 
pains. 

I will this dreary blank of absence make 
A noble task-time ; and will therein strive 

To follow excellence, and to o'ertake 
More good than I have won since yet I live. 

So may this doomed time build up in me 
A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine; 

So may my love and longing hallowed be. 
And thy dear thought an influence divine. 

Frances Annb Kemble. 



382 



POUMS OF LOVE. 



Song. 

Day, in melting purple dying ; 
Blossoms, aU around me sighing ; 
Fragrance, from the lilies straying ; 
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing ; 

Ye but waken my distress, 

I am sick of loneliness ! 

Thou, to whom I love to hearken. 
Come, ere night around me darken ; 
Though thy softness but deceive me, 
Say thou 'rt true, and I'U believe thee ; 

Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent, 

Let me think it innocent ! 

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure ; 

All I ask is friendship's pleasure ; 

Let the shining ore lie darkling ; 

Bring no gem in lustre sparlding ; 

Gifts and gold are naught to me, 
I would only look on thee ! 

Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling, 

Ecstasy but in revealing ; 

Paint to thee the deep sensation, 

Kapture in participation ! 

Yet but torture, if comprest 
In a lone, unfriended breast. 

Absent still ! Ah ! come and bless me ! 

Let these eyes again caress thee. 

Once in caution I could fly thee ; 

Now, I nothing could deny thee. 
In a look if death there be, 
Coine, and I will gaze on thee ! 

Maeia Brooks. 



@[l)e ^roomstnon to l)i0 ittiatress. 

Every wedding, says the proverb, 
Makes another, soon or late ; 

Never yet was any marriage 
Entered in the book of fate, 

But the names were also written 
Of the patient pair that wait. 



Blessings then upon the morning 
When my friend, with fondest look, 

By the solemn rites' permission. 
To himself his mistress took, 

And the destinies recorded 
Other two within their book. 

While the priest fulfilled his oifice, 
Still the ground the lovers eyed. 

And the parents and the kinsmen 
Aimed their glances at the bride ; 

But the groomsmen eyed the virgins 
Who were waiting at her side. 

Three there were that stood beside her ; 

One was dark, and one was fair; 
But nor fair nor dark the other, 

Save her Arab eyes and hair ; 
Neither dark nor fair I call her, 

Yet she was the fairest there. 

While her groomsman — shall I own it? 

Yes to thee, and only thee — 
Gazed upon this dark-eyed maiden 

Who was fairest of the three, 
Thus he thought : " How blest the bridal 

Where the bride were such as she ! " 

Then I mused upon the adage. 
Till my wisdom was perplexed. 

And I wondered, as the churchman 
Dwelt upon his holy text. 

Which of all who heard his lesson 
Should require the service next. 

Whose will be the next occasion 
For the flowers, the feast, the wine ? 

Thine, perchanc6, my dearest lady ; 
Or, who knows? — it may be mine. 

What if 'twere — forgive the fancy — 
What if 'twere — both mine and thine? 
Thomas William Paksons. 



0ong. 

How delicious is the winning 
Of a kiss at love's beginning, 
When two mutual hearts are sighing 
For the knot there 's no untying ! 



THE CHRONICLE. 283 


Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing, 


A mighty tyrant she ! 


Love has bliss, but love has rueing ; 


Long, alas ! should I have been 


Other smiles may make you fickle. 


Under that iron-sceptred queen, 


Tears for other charms may trickle. 


Had not Rebecca set me free. 


Love he comes and Love he tarries, 


When fair Rebecca set me free. 


Just as fate our fancy carries ; 


'Twas then a golden time with me : 


Longest stays when sorest chidden ; 


But soon those pleasures fled ; 


Laughs and flies when pressed and bidden. 


For the gracious princess died 




In her youth and beauty's pride, 


Bind the sea to slumber stilly. 


And Judith reigned in her stead. 


Bind its odor to the lUy, 




Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, 


One month, three days, and half an hour 


Then bind love to last forever ! 


Judith held the sovereign power ; 


Thomas Campbell. 


Wondrous beautiful her face ! 




But so weak and small her wit. 




That she to govern was unfit. 




And so Susanna took her place. 


Qri)e Olljronide. 




Makgaeita first possessed, 


But when Isabella came. 


If I remember well, my breast, 


Armed with a resistless flame. 


Margarita first of all ; 


And the artillery of her eye. 


But when awhile the wanton maid 


Whilst she proudly marched about, 


With my restless heart had played, 


Greater conquests to find out. 


Martha took the flying ball. 


She beat out Susan by the bye. 


Martha soon did it resign 


But in her place I then obeyed 


To the beauteous Catharine. 


Black-eyed Bess, her viceroy-maid, 


Beauteous Catharine gave place 


To whom ensued a vacancy : 


(Though loth and angry she to part 


Thousand worse passions then possessed 


With the possession of my heart) 


The interregnum of my breast ; 


To Eliza's conquering face. 


Bless me from such an anarchy ! 


Eliza to this hour might reign. 


Gentle Henrietta then, 


Had she not evil counsels ta'en : 


And a third Mary next began ; 


Fundamental laws she broke. 


Then Joan, and Jane, and Andria ; 


And still new favorites she chose. 


And then a pretty Thomasine, 


Till up in arms my passion, rose, 


And then another Catharine, 


And cast away her yoke. 


And then a long et cmtera. 


Mary then, and gentle Anne, 


But should I now to you relate 


Both to reign at once began ; 


The strength and riches of their state ; 


Alternately they swayed ; 


The powder, patches, and the pins. 


And sometimes Mary was the fair, 


The ribbons, jewels, and the rings, 


And sometimes Anne the crown did wear. 


The lace, the paint, and warlike things. 


And sometimes both I obeyed. 


That make up all their magazines ; 


Another Mary then arose. 


If I should tell the politic arts 


And did rigorous laws impose ; 


To take and keep men's hearts ; 



384 POEMS OF LOVE. 


The letter, embassies, and spies. 


I lounge in the ilex shadows, 


The frowns, and smiles, and flatteries, 


I see the lady lean. 


The quarrels, tears, and perjuries 


Unclasping her silken gii-dle. 


(Numberless, nameless mysteries !) 


The curtain's folds between. 


And aU the little lime-twigs laid 


She smiles on her white-rose lover. 


By Machiavel the waiting-maid — 


She reaches out her hand 


I more voluminous should grow 


And helps him in at the window — 


(Chiefly if I like them should tell 


I see it where I stand ! 


All change of weathers that befell) 




Than Holinshed or Stow. 


To her scarlet lip she holds him, 


But I will briefer with them be, 


And kisses him many a time — 


Since few of them were long with me. 


Ah, me ! it was he that won her 


An higher and a nobler strain 


Because he dared to climb ! 


My present emperess does claim — 


Thomas Bailbt Aldrich. 


Heleonora, first of the name ; 




Whom God grant long to reign ! 




Abraham Cowley. 






Qlrabbeir ^ge anh foutl). 




Ckabbed age and youth 


@;i)e Nun. 


Cannot live together : 


If you become a nun, dear, 


Youth is full of pleasance, 


A friar 1 will be ; 


Age is full of care ; 


In any cell you run, dear, 


Youth like summer morn. 


Pray look behind for me. 


Age like winter weather ; 


The roses all turn pale, too ; 
The doves all take the veil, too ; 


Youth like summer brave, 


Age like winter bare. 


The blind will see the show ; 


Youth is full of sport. 


What ! you become a nun, my dear. 


Age's breath is short ; 


J 5 .7 ? 

I'll not believe it, no ! 


Youth is nimble, age is lame : 




Youth is hot and bold, 


If you become a nun, dear. 


Age is weak and cold : 


The bishop Love will be ; 


Youth is wild, and age is tame. 


The Cupids every one, dear. 


Age, I do abhor thee. 


Will chant, " We trust in thee ! " 


Youth, I do adore thee ; 


The incense will go sighing, 


0, my love, my love is young 1 


The candles fall a dying, 


Age, I do defy thee ; 


The water turn to wine : 


0, sweet shepherd ! hie thee, 


What ! you go take the vows, my dear? 


For methinks thou stay'st too long. 


You may — but they'll be mine. 


William Shakbspeakb. 


Leigh Hunt. 




Nocttirne. 


QClje iHaiben's (t\\o\u. 


Up to her chamber window 


Genteel in personage. 


A slight wire trellis goes. 


Conduct and equipage ; 


And up this Romeo's ladder 


Noble by heritage ; 


Clambers a bold white rose. 


Generous and free ; 



TEE SEEPEERD'S RESOLUTION. 385 


Brave, not romantic ; 


Think what with them they would do 


Learned, not pedantic ; 


That without them dare to woo ; 


Frolic, not frantic — 


And unless that mind I see. 


This must he be. 


What care I how great she be ? 


Honor maintaining, 


Great, or good, or kind, or fair. 


Meanness disdaining. 


I will ne'er the more despair ; 


Still entertaining. 


If she love me, this believe — 


Engaging and new ; 


I will die ere she shall grieve. 


Neat, but not finical ; 
Sage, but not cynical ; 


If she slight me when I woo, 
I can scorn and let her go ; 
For if she be not for me. 


Never tyrannical. 


What care I for whom she be ? 


But ever true. 




Anontmotjs. 


George Wither. 


QTlje 0l)cpl)crb's Kesolntion. 


Song. 


Shall I, wasting in despair. 


Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 


Die because a woman 's f au" ? 


Pr'y thee, why so pale ? 


Or make pale my cheeks with care, 


Will, when looking well can't move her. 


'Cause another's rosy are ? 


Looking ill prevail ? 


Be she fairer than the day. 


Pr'y thee, why so pale ? 


Or the flowery meads in May — 




If she be not so to me. 


Why so dull and mute, young sinner? 


What care I how fair she be ? 


Pr'y thee, why so mute ? 


' 


Will, when speaking well can't win her. 


Shall my foolish heart be pined 


Saying nothing do't ? 


'Cause I see a woman kind ? 


Pr'y thee, why so mute ? 


Or a well-disposed nature 




Joined with a lovely feature ? 


Quit, quit, for shame ! this will not move. 


Be she meeker, kinder, than 


This cannot take her ; 


The turtle dove or pelican — 


If of herself she wiU not love. 


If she be not so to me. 


Nothing can make her : 


What care I how kind she be ? 


The devil take her ! 




Sir John Suckling. 


Shall a woman's virtues move 




Me to perish for her love ? 


. 


Or, her well deservings known. 


iTlg not f et. 


Make me quite forget mine own ? 


Be she with that goodness blest. 


Fly not yet — 'tis just the hour 


Which may merit name of best, 


When pleasure, like the midnight flower 


If she be not such to me. 


That scorns the eye of vulgar light, 


What care I how good she be ? 


Begins to bloom for sons of night. 




And maids who love the moon ! 


'Cause her fortune seems too high. 


'Twas but to bless these hours of shade 


Shall I play the fool and die ? 


That beauty and the moon were made ; 


Those that bear a noble mind 


'Tis then their soft attractions glowing 


Where they want of riches find. 


Set the tides and goblets flowing ! 



286 POEMS OF LOVE. 


Oh! stay, — oh! stay, — 




Joy so seldom weaves a chain 


%\\z ari)eat of (Ettflib ; 


Like this to-night, that oh ! 'tis pain 




To break its links so soon. 


OR, THE UNGENTLE GUEST. 




One silent night of late. 


Ply not yet ! the fount that played, 


When every creature rested, 


In times of old, through Ammon's shade, 


Came one unto my gate. 


Though icy cold by day it ran. 


And, knocking, me molested. 


Yet still, like sounds of mirth, began 




To burn when night was near ; 


Who 's there, said I, beats there, 


And thus should woman's heart and looks 


And troubles thus the sleepy ? 


At noon be cold as winter-brooks, 


Cast ofE, said he, all fear. 


Nor kindle tUl the night, returning, 


And let not locks thus keep thee. 


Brings their genial hour for burning. 




Oh! stay, — oh! stay, — 


Por I a boy am, who 


When did morning ever break 


By moonless nights have swerved ; 


And find such beaming eyes awake 


- And all with showers wet through, 


As those that sparkle here ! 


And e'en with cold half starved. 


Thomas Mooke. 






I, pitiful, arose, 




And soon a taper lighted ; 


SDereitfulness of Cooe. 


And did myself disclose 
Unto the lad benighted. 


Go, sit by the summer sea. 




Thou whom scorn wasteth, 


I saw he had a bow. 


And let thy musing be 


And wings, too, which did shiver ; 


Where the flood hasteth. 


And, looking down below. 


Mark how o'er ocean's breast 


1 spied he had a quiver. 


Rolls the hoar billow's crest ; 




Such is his heart's unrest. 


I to my chimney's shrine 


Who of love tasteth. 


Brought him, as Love professes, 




And chafed his hands with mine, 


Griev'st thou that hearts should change? 


And dried his dripping tresses. 


Lo ! where life reigneth. 




Or the free sight doth range, 


But when that he felt warmed : 


What long remaineth? 


Let 's try this bow of ours, 


Spring with her flowers doth die ; 


And string, if they be harmed, 


Past fades the gilded sky ; 


Said he, with these late showers. 


And the full moon on high 




Ceaselessly waneth. 


Porthwith his bow he bent,, 




And wedded string and arrow. 


Smile, then, ye sage and wise : 


And struck me, that it went 


And if love sever 


Quite through my heart and marrow. 


Bonds which thy soul doth prize, 




Such does it ever ! ♦ 


Then, laughing loud, he flew 


Deep as the rolling seas, 


Away, and thus said, flying : 


Soft as the twilight breeze. 


Adieu, mine host, adieu ! 


But of more than these 


I'll leave thy heart a-dying. 


Boast could it never ! 


AiJaoreon. (Qreek.) 


Anonymous. 


Translation of Robert Heekick. 



TEE ANNOYEB. 



287 



Love comes back to his vacant dwelling — 
The old, old Love that we knew of yore ! 
We see him stand by the open door, 

With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling;. 

He makes as though in our arms repelling 
He fain would lie, as he lay before ; 

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling — 
The old, old Love which we knew of yore ! 

Ah, who shall help us from over-speUing 
That sweet forgotten, forbidden Love ! 
E'en as we doubt, in our heart once move, 
With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling, 
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling ! 

Austin Dobson. 



3f 1 JUcsire tnitl) |)leosant Songs. 

If I desire with pleasant songs 

To throw a merry hour away, 
Comes Love unto me, and my wrongs 

In careful tale he doth display. 
And asks me how I stand for singing, 
WhUe I my helpless hands am wringing. 

And then another time, if I 
A noon in shady bower would pass, 

Comes he with stealthy gestures sly. 
And flinging down upon the grass. 

Quoth he to me : My master dear, 

Think of this noontide such a year ! 

And if elsewhile I lay my head 

,0n pillow, with intent to sleep, 
Lies Love beside me on the bed. 

And gives me ancient words to keep ; 
Says he : These looks, these tokens number ; 
May be, they'll help you to a slumber. 

So every time when I would yield 
An hour to quiet, comes he still ; 

And hunts up every sign concealed. 
And every outward sign of ill ; 

And gives me his sad face's pleasures 

For merriment's,, or sleep's, or leisure's. 

Thomas Burbidce. 



Wi\t ^nnoger. 

Love knoweth every form of air, 

And every shape of earth. 
And comes unbidden everywhere, 

Like thought's mysterious birth. 
The moonlit sea and the sunset sky 

Are written with Love's words. 
And you hear his voice unceasingly, 

Like song in the time of birds. 

He peeps into the warrior's heart 

Prom the tip of a stooping plume, 
And the serried spears, and the many men. 

May not deny him room. 
He'll come to his tent in the weary night. 

And be busy in his dream, 
And he'll float to his eye in the morning light, 

Like a fay on a silver beam. 

He hears the sound of the hunter's gun, 

And rides on the echo back. 
And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf, 

And flits in his woodland track. 
The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river. 

The cloud and the open sky, — 
He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver. 

Like the light of your very eye. 

The fisher hangs over the leaning boat, 

And ponders the silver sea, 
For Love is under the surface hid, 

And a spell of thought has he. 
He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet. 

And speaks in the ripple low. 
Till the bait is gone from the crafty line. 

And the hook hangs bare below. 

He blurs the print of the scholar's book, 

And intrudes in the maiden's prayer, 
And profanes the cell of the holy man 

In the shape of a lady fair. 
In the darkest night, and the bright daylight. 

In earth, and sea, and sky, 
In every home of human thought 

Will Love be lurking nigh. 

Nathaniel Pabker Wilms. 



288 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



% itlentorobk HD^ssert. 

We dined. A fish from the river beneath, 
A cutlet, a bird from the windy heath 

Where we had wandered, happy and mute ; 
It was a silent day with us — 
In the early time it is often thus ; 

But my sweet love chatted when came the fruit. 

Flavor of sunburnt nectarine, 

And the light that danced through a wineglass thin. 

Filled with juice of the grape of Rhine ; 
She talked and laughed about this and that, 
Easy, exquisite, foohsh chat. 

While her pretty, fluttering hand sought mine. 

And I thought : Come glory or come distress, 
In this wonderful weary wilderness. 

This hour is mine till the day of death ; 
The fruit, the wine, and my lady fair, 
With a flower of the heath in her dim brown hair. 

And a sigh of love in her fragrant breath. 

Anontmotts. 



©0X2 ©'illorc; 

OR, GOOD OMENS. 

Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen bawn ; 

He was bold as the hawk, and she soft as the dawn ; 

He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please. 

And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. 

" Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry, 

Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye — 

" With your tricks, I don't know, in throth, what 

I'm about ; 
Faith you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside 

out." 
" Och ! jewel," says Rory, " that same is the way 
You've thrated my heart for this many a day ; 
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure ? 
For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. 

" Indeed, then," says Kathleen, " don't think of the 

like. 
For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike ; 
The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound." 
" Faith ! " says Rory, " I'd rather love you than the 

ground." 



"Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go; 

Sure I dream ev'ry night that I'm hating you 

so!" 
" Och ! " says Rory, " that same I'm delighted to 

hear. 
For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear. 
Och ! jewel, keep dhraming that same- till you die. 
And bright morning wiU give dirty night the black 

lie! 
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure ? 
Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. 

" Arrah, Kathleen, my' darlint, you've teased me 

enough ; 
Sure I've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes 

and Jim Duff ; 
And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite 

a baste. 
So I think, after that, I may talk to the priest." 
Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her 

neck, 
So soft and so white, without freckle or speck ; 
And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming with 

light. 
And he kissed her sweet lips — don't you think he 

was right ? 
" Now Rory, leave off, sir — you'll hug me no more — 
That 's eight times to-day you have kissed me be- 
fore." 
" Then here goes another," says he, " to make sure, 
For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory 

O'More. 

Samcbl Lotek. 



aroming tljrongl) tl)c Ipe. 

Gin a body meet a body 

Comin' through the rye. 
Gin a body kiss a body. 

Need a body cry? 
Every lassie has her laddie — 

Ne'er a ane hae I ; 
Yet a' the lads they smile at me 

When comin' through the rye. 
Amang the train there is a swain 

I dearly lo^e mijseV; 
But whaur his hame, or what his name, 
I dinna care to tell. 



MOLLY 


CAREW. 289 


Gin a body meet a body 


Its beauties to tell, as he'd rather ; 


Comin' frae the town, 


Then your lips ! oh, machree ! 


Gin a body greet a body, 


In their beautiful glow 


Need a body frown ? 


They a pattern might be 


Every lassie has her laddie — 


For the cherries to grow. 


Ne'er a ane hae I ; 


'Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we 


Yet a' the lads they smile at me 


know. 


When comin' through the rye. 


For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago ; 


Amang the train there is a swain 


But at this time o' day. 


I dearly We myseV; 
But whaur his hame, or what his name, 


'Pon my conscience I'll say, 
Such cherries might tempt a man's father ! 


J dinna care to tell. 


• Och hone ! weirasthru ! 


Anontmous. 


I'm alone in this world without you. 




Och hone ! by the man in the moon. 


iHoUg CTaretD. 


You taze me all ways 
That a woman can plaze. 


OcH hone ! and what will I do ? 


For you dance twice as high with that thief, Pat 


Sure my love is all crost. 


Magee, 


Like a bud in the frost : 


As when you take share of a jig, dear, with me ; 


And there 's no use at all in my going to bed, 


Tho' the piper I bate. 


For 'tis dhrames and not sleep that comes into my 


For fear the old cheat 


head: 


Would n't play you your favorite time. 


And 'tis all about you. 


And when you 're at mass 


My sweet Molly Carew — 


My devotion you crass. 


And indeed, 'tis a sin and a shame ! 


For 'tis thinking of you 


You 're complater than nature 


I am, Molly Carew, 


In every feature ; 


While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep 


The snow can't compare 


That I can't at your sweet pretty face get a peep. 


With your forehead so fair ; 


Oh, lave off that bonnet. 


And I rather would see just one blink of your 


Or else I'll lave on it 


eye 


The loss of my wandering sowl ! 


Than the prettiest star that shines out of the 


Och hone ! weirasthru ! 


sky; 


Och hone ! like an owl. 


And by this and by that, 


Day is night, dear, to me without you ! 


For the matter o' that, 




You're more distant by far than that same ! 


Och hone ! don't provoke me to do it ; 


Och hone ! weirasthru ! 


For there 's girls by the score 


I'm alone in this world without you. 


That loves me — and more ; 




And you'd look very quare if some morning you'd 


Och hone ! but why should I spake 


meet 


Of your forehead and eyes, 


My wedding all marching in pride down the street ; 


When your nose it defies 


Troth, you'd open your eyes. 


Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in 


And you'd die with surprise 


rhyme ; 


To think 'twasn't you was come to it ! 


Tho' there 's one Burke, he says, that would call it 


And faith, Katty Naile, 


snublime. 


And her cow, I go bail. 


And then for your cheek. 


Would jump if I'd say. 


Troth 'twould take him a week 

2T 


" Katty NaUe, name the day ; " 



290 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



And tho' you're fair and fresh as a morning in 

May, 
While she's short and dark like a cold winter's 
day, 
Yet if you don't repent 
Before Easter, when Lent 
Is over, I'll marry for spite, 
Oeh hone ! weirasthru ! 
And when I die for you. 
My ghost will haunt you every night. 

Samuel Lover. 



toibotD illacljrce. 

Widow machree, it 's no wonder you frown — 

Och hone ! widow machree ; 
Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black 
gown — 
Och hone ! widow machree. 
How altered your air. 
With that close cap you wear — 
'Tis destroying your hair. 

Which should be flowing free : 
Be no longer a churl 
Of its black silken curl — 
Och hone ! widow machree ! 

Widow machree, now the summer is come — 

Och hone ! widow machree — 
When every thing smiles, should a beauty look 
glum? 
Och hone ! widow machree ! 
See the birds go in pairs. 
And the rabbits and hares — 
Why, even the bears 

Now in couples agree ; 
And the mute little fish. 
Though they can't spake, they wish — 
Och hone ! widow machree. 

Widow machree, and when winter comes in — 

Och hone ! widow machree — , 
To be poking the fire all alone is a sin, 
Och hone ! widow machree. 
Sure the shovel and tongs 
To each other belongs, 
And the kettle sings songs 



Full of family glee ; 
While alone with your cup, 
Like a hermit you sup, 

Och hone ! widow machree. 

And how do you know, with the comforts I've 
towld — 
Och hone ! widow machree — 
But you're keeping some poor fellow out in the 
cowld, 
Och hone ! widow machree ! 
With such sins on your head. 
Sure your peace would be fled ; 
Could you sleep in your bed 

Without thinking to see 
Some ghost or some sprite. 
That would wake you each night. 
Crying, " Och hone ! widow machree ! " 

Then take my advice, darling widow machree — 

Och hone ! widow machree — 
And with my advice, faith, I wish you'd take me, 
Och hone ! widow machree ! 
You'd have me to desire 
Then to stir up the fire ; 
And sure Hope is no liar 

In whispering to me. 
That the ghosts would depart 
When you'd me near your heart — 
Och hone ! widow machree ! 

Samuel Lover. 



®l)e (Eourtin'. 

God makes sech nights, all white an' still 

Fur 'z you can look or listen, 
Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 

All silence an' all glisten. 

Zelde crep' up quite unbeknown 
An' peeked in thru' the winder, 

An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
'Ith no one nigh to hender. 

A fireplace filled the room's one side 
With half a cord o' wood in, — 

There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) 
To bake ye to a puddin'. 



THE COURTIN\ 



291 



The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 
Towards the pootiest, bless her, 

An' leetle flames danced all about 
The chiny on the dresser. 

Agin the ehimbley crook-necks hung, 

An' in amongst 'em rusted 
The ole queen's arm thet Gran'ther Young 

Fetched back from Concord busted. 

The very room, coz she was in. 
Seemed warm from floor to eeilin', 

An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
Ez the apples she was peelin'. 

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look 

On sech a blessed cretur, 
A dogrose blushin' to a brook 

Ain't modester nor sweeter. 

He was six foot o' man, A 1, 

Clean grit an' human natur' ; 
None couldn't quicker pitch a ton 

Nor dror a furrer straighter. 

He'd sparked it with full twenty gels, 
Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em. 

Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells, — 
All is, he couldn't love 'em. 

But long o' her his veins 'ould run 

All crinkly like ciirled maple, 
The side she breshed felt full o' sun 

Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing 

Ez hisn in the choir ; 
My ! when he made Ole Hundred ring. 

She hnowed the Lord was nigher. 

An' she 'd blush scarlit, right in prayer. 
When her new meetin'-bunnet 

Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair 
0' blue eyes sot upon it. 

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some ! 

She seemed to 've gut a new soul. 
For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, 

Down to her very shoe-sole. 



She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, 

A-raspin' on the scraper, — 
All ways to once her feelin's flew, 

Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 

He kin' o' I'itered on the mat, 

Some doubtfle o' the sekle ; 
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat. 

But hern went pity Zekle. 

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk 
Ez though she wished him furder, 

An' on her apples kep' to work, 
Parin' away like murder. 

" You want to see my Pa, I s'pose ? " 
" Wal ... no ... I come dasignin' "— 

" To see my Ma ? She 's sprinklin' clo'es 
Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." 

To say why gals acts so or so, 

Or don't, 'ould be presurain' ; 
Mebby to mean yes an' say no 

Comes nateral to women. 

He stood a spell on one foot fust. 

Then stood a spell on t'other. 
An' on which one he felt the wust 

He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. 

Says he, " I'd better call agin ; " 
Says she, " Think likely. Mister : " 

Thet last word pricked him like a pin. 
An' . . . Wal, he up an' kist her. 

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 

Huldy sot pale ez ashes. 
All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 

An' teary roun' the lashes. 

For she was jes' the quiet kind 

Whose naturs never vary. 
Like streams that keep a summer mind 

Snow-hid in Jenooary. 

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued 

Too tight for all expressin'. 
Tell mother see how metters stood. 

And gin 'em both her blessin'. 



393 POEMS OF LOVE. 


Then her red come back like the tide 


There 's a whisper of hearts you are breaking, 


Down to the Bay o' Fundy, 


I envy their owners, I do ! 


An' all I know is they was cried 


Small marvel that Fortune is making 


In meetin' come nex' Sunday. 


Her idol of you. 


James Kussell Lowell. 






Alas for the world, and its dearly 




Bought triumph and fugitive bliss ! 


% Nice ffi:or«s|Joni»ent. 


Sometimes I half wish I were merely 




A plain or a penniless miss ; 


The glow and the glory are plighted 


But, perhaps one is blest with a measure 


To darkness, for evening is come ; 


Of pelf, and I'm not sorry, too, 


The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted, 


That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure. 


The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb. 


My dearest, to you. 


I'm alone at my casement, for Pappy 




Is summoned to dinner to Kew : 


Your whim is for frolic and fashion, 


I'm alone, my dear Fred, but I'm happy — 


Your taste is for letters and art, 


I'm thinking of you. 


This rhyme is the commonplace passion 




That glows in a fond woman's heart. 


I wish you were here. Were I duller 


Lay it by in a dainty deposit 


Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear ; 


For relics, we all have a few ! 


I am drest in yoiir favorite color — 


Love, some day they'll print it, because it 


Dear Fred, how I wish you were here ! 


Was written to you. 


I am wearing my lazuli necklace. 


Fkedekick Locker. 


The necklace you fastened askew ! 




Was there ever so rude or so reckless 




A darling as you ? 


Stanzas. 


I want you to come and pass sentence 


Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story ; 


On two or three books with a plot ; 


The days of our youth are the days of our glory. 


Of course you know " Janet's Kepentance ? " 


And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 


I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott, 


Are worth aU your laurels, though ever so 


The story of Edgar and Lucy, 


plenty. 


How thrilling, romantic, and time ! 




The Master (his bride was a goosey !) 


What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is 


Reminds me of you. 


wrinkled ? 




'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew be- 


To-day in my ride I've been crowning 


sprinkled. 


The beacon ; its magic still lures, 


Then away with all such from the head that is 


For up there you discoursed about Browning, 


hoaiy ! 


That stupid old Browning of yours. 


What care I for the wreaths that can only give 


His vogue and his verve are alarming. 


glory! 


I'm anxious to give him his due ; 




But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming 


Fame ! if I e'er took delight in thy praises. 


A poet as you. , 


'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding 




phrases 


I heard how you shot at The Beeches, 


Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one dis- 


I saw how you rode Chanticleer, 


cover 


I have read the report of your speeches. 


She thought that I was not unworthy to love 


And echoed the echoing cheer. 


her. 



THE MAID'S LAMENT. 293 


There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found 


But autumn's wind uncloses 


thee; 


The heart of all your flowers ; 


Her glance was the best of the rays that surround 


I think, as with the roses, 


thee; 


So hath it been with ours. 


When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my 




story, 
I knew it was love and I felt it was glory. 


Like some divided river 


Your ways and mine will be. 


Lord Byron. 


To drift apart for ever. 




For ever till the sea. 




And yet for one word spoken, 


^\)t illaib'0 lament. 


One whisper of regret. 


The dream had not been broken, 


I LOVED him not ; and yet, now he is gone, 


And love were with us yet. 


I feel I am alone. 


Eennell Rodd. 


I checked him while he spoke, yet could he speak, 




Alas 1 I would not check. 




For reasons not to love him once I sought, 


Senng kisseb Mz. 


And wearied all my thought 




To vex myself and him ; I now would give 


Jenny kissed me when we met, 


My love, could he but live 


Jumping from the chair she sat in ; 


Who lately lived for me, and, when he found 


Time, you thief ! who love to get 


'Twas vain, in holy ground 


Sweets into your list, put that in. 


He hid his face amid the shades of death ! 


Say I'm weary, say I'm sad ; 


I waste for him my breath 


Say that health and wealth have missed me : 


Who wasted his for me ; but mine returns. 


Say I'm growing old, but add — Jenny kissed me ! 


And this lone bosom burns 


Leish Hunt. 


With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep. 




And waking me to weep 




Tears that had melted his soft heart ; for years 


00ng. 


Wept he as bitter tears ! 


Jv 


" Merciful God ! " such was his latest prayer. 


I BADE thee stay. Too well I know 


" These may she never share ! " 


The fault was mine, mine only : 


Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold 


I dared not think upon the past. 


Than daisies in the mould, 


AH desolate and lonely. 


Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, 


TO J1 • ) *1 J. * 


His name and life's brief date. 


I feared m memory s silent air 


Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be, 


Too sadly to regret thee. 


And oh ! pray, too, for me ! 


Feared in the night of my despair 




I could not all forget thee. 


Walter Savage Lakdob. 






Yet go, ah, go ! Those pleading eyes. 




Those low, sweet tones, appealing 




From heart to heart ; ah, dare I trust 


^ 0ong of !a<utnmn. 


That passionate revealing ? 


All through the golden weather 


For ah, those keen and pleading eyes 


Until the autumn fell. 


Evoke too keen a sorrow, 


Our lives went by together 


A pang that will not pass away 


So wildly and so well. 

• J 


With thy wild vows to-morrow. 



294 FOUMS OF LOVK 


A love immortal and divine 


And speak my passion. — Heaven or helH 


Within my heart is waiting ; 


She will not give me heaven ? 'Tis well — 


Its dream of anguish and despair 


Lose who may — I still can say. 


It owns not but in breaking. 


Those who win heaven, blest are they. 


Sabah Helen Whitman. 


Robert Browning. 




Ballad. 


iHisconccptions. 






Sigh on, sad heart, for love's eclipse 


This is a spray the bird clung to, 


And beauty's fairest queen. 


Making it blossom with pleasure, 


Though 'tis not for my peasant lips 


Ere the high tree-top she sprung to. 


To soil her name between. 


Fit for her nest and her treasure. 


A king might lay his sceptre down, 


Oh, what a hope beyond measure 


But I am poor and naught ; 


Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung 


The brow should wear a golden crown 


to,— 


That wears her in its thought. 


So to be singled out, built in, and sung to ! 






The diamonds glancing in her hair, 


This is a heart the queen leant on. 


Whose sudden beams surprise. 


Thrilled in a minute erratic. 


Might bid such humble hopes beware 


Ere the true bosom she bent on. 


The glancing of her eyes ; 


Meet for love's regal dalmatic. 


Yet, looking once, I looked too long ; 


Oh, what a fancy ecstatic 


And if my love is sin. 


Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went 


Death follows on the heels of wrong, 


on — 


And kills the ci-ime within. 


Love to be saved for it, proifered to, spent on ! 




Robert Browning. 


Her dress seemed wove of lily-leaves, 




It was so pure and fine — 




Oh lofty wears, and lowly weaves. 




But hodden gray is mine ; 


(Bnt tOas of toia. 


And homely hose must step apart. 




Where gartered princes stand ; 


All June I bound the rose in sheaves ; 


But may he wear my love at heart 


Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves. 


That wins her lily hand ! 


And strew them where Pauline may pass. 




She will not turn aside f Alas ! 


Alas ! there's far from russet frieze 


Let them lie. Suppose they die ? 


To silks and satin gowns : 


The chance was they might take her eye. 


But I doubt if God made like degrees 




In courtly hearts and clowns. 


How many a month I strove to suit 


My father wronged a maiden's mirth. 


These stubborn fingers to the lute ! 


And brought her cheeks to blame ; 


To-day I venture all I know. 


And all that's lordly of my birth 


She will not hear my music 1 So ! 


Is my reproach and shame ! 


Break the string — fold music's wing.« 




Suppose Pauline had bade me sing ! 


'Tis vain to weep, 'tis vain to sigh, 




'Tis vain this idle speech — 


My whole life long I learned to love ; 


For where her happy pearls do lie 


This hour my utmost art I prove 


My tears may never reach ; 



WEST POINT. 



295 



Yet when I'm gone, e'en lofty pride 

May say, of what has been, 
His love was nobly born and died. 

Though all the rest was mean ! 

My speech is rude, but speech is weak 

Such love as mine to tell ; 
Yet had I words, I dare not speak : 

So, lady, fare thee well ! 
I will not wish thy better state 

Was one of low degree. 
But I must weep that partial fate 

Made such a churl of me. 

Thomas Hood. 



toest |Joint. 



'TwAS Commencement eve, and the ball-room belle 

In her dazzling beauty was mine that night. 
As the music dreamily rose and fell, 

And the waltzers whirled in a blaze of light : 
I can see them now in the moonbeam's glance 

Across the street on a billowy fl.oor, 
That rises and falls with the merry dance. 

To a music that floats in my heart once more. 

A long half-hour in the twilight leaves 

Of the shrubbery : she, with coquettish face, 
And dainty arms in their flowing sleeves, 

A dream of satins and love and lace. 
In the splendor there of her queenly smile. 

Through her two bright eyes I could see the glow 
Of cathedral windows, as up the aisle 

We marched to a music's ebb and flow. 

All in a dream of Commencement eve ! 

I remember I awkwardly buttoned a glove 
On the dainty arm in its flowing sleeve. 

With a broken sentence of hope and love. 
But the diamonds that flashed in her wavy hair, 

And the beauty that shone in her faultless face, 
Are all I recall as I struggled there, 

A poor brown fly in a web of lace. 

Yet a laughing, coquettish face I see. 
As the moonlight falls on the pavement gray, 

I can hear her laugh in the melody 
Of the waltz's music across the way. 



And I kept the glove so dainty and small. 
That I stole as she sipped her lemonade. 

Till I packed it away I think with all 
Of those traps I lost in our Northern raid. 

But I never can list to that waltz divine, 

With its golden measure of joy and pain, 
But it brings like the flavor of some old wine 

To my heart the warmth of the past again. 
A short flirtation — that's all, you know, 

Some faded flowers, a silken tress, 
The letters I burned up years ago. 

When I heard from her last in the Wilderness. 

I suppose, could she see I am maimed and old, 

She would soften the scorn that was changed 
to hate, 
When 1 chose the bars of the gray and gold, 

And followed the South to its bitter fate. 
But here 's to the lads of the Northern blue. 

And here 's to the boys of the Southern gray. 
And I would that the Northern star but knew 

How the Southern cross is borne to-day. 

L. C. Strong. 



Song. 

I WENT to her who loveth me no more, 
And prayed her bear with me, if so she might ; 

For I had found day after day too sore. 
And tears that would not cease night after night. 

And so I prayed her, weeping, that she bore 

To let me be with her a little ; yea, 
To soothe myself a little with her sight, 

Who loved me once, ah ! many a night and day. 

Then she who loveth me no more, maybe 
She pitied somewhat : and 1 took a chain 

To bind myself to her, and her to me ; 
Yea, so that I might call her mine again. 

Lo ! she forbade me not ; but I and she 

Fettered her fair limbs, and her neck more fair, 
Chained the fair wasted white of love's domain. 

And put gold fetters on her golden hair. 

Oh ! the vain joy it is to see her lie 
Beside me once again ; beyond release. 

Her hair, her hand, her body, till she die. 
All mine, for me to do with as I please ! 



296 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



For, after all, I find no chain whereby 
To chain her heart to love me as before. 

Nor fetter for her lips, to make them cease 
From saying still she loveth me no more. 

Arthur W. E. O'Shaughnesst. 



(El)e HDuant. 



Our life is twofold : sleep hath its own world — 

A boundary between the things misnamed 

Death and existence : sleep hath its own world. 

And a wide realm of wild reality ; 

And dreams in their development have breath, 

And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 

They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts ; 

They take a weight from off our waking toils ; 

They do divide our being ; they become 

A portion of ourselves as of our time. 

And look like heralds of eternity ; 

They pass like spirits of the past, they speak 

Like sibyls of the future; they have power — 

The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 

They make us what we were not — what they 

will; 
They shake us with the vision that's gone by. 
The dread of vanished shadows. Are they so ? 
Is not the past all shadow ? What are they f 
Creations of the mind ? — the mind can make 
Substance, and people planets of its own 
With beings brighter than have been, and give 
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. 
I would recall a vision, which I dreamed 
Perchance in sleep ; for in itself a thought, 
A slumbering thought, is capable of years. 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 

II. 

I saw two beings in the hues of youth 

Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 

Green and of mild declivity ; the last. 

As 'twere the cape, of a long ridge of such. 

Save that there was no sea to lave its base. 

But a most living landscape, and the wave 

Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 

Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke 

Arising from such rustic roofs ; the hill 



Was crowned with a peculiar diadem 

Of trees, in cu'cular an-ay — so fixed, 

Not by the sport of nature, but of man. 

These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 

Gazing — the one on all that was beneath ; 

Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her; 

And both were young, and one was beautiful ; 

And both were young — yet not alike in youth. 

As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, 

The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 

The boy had fewer summers ; but his heart 

Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 

There was but one beloved face on earth. 

And that was shining on him ; he had looked 

Upon it till it could not pass away ; 

He had no breath, no being, but in hers ; 

She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 

But trembled on her words ; she was his sight, 

For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers. 

Which colored all his objects ; he had ceased 

To live within himself ; she was his life, ' 

The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 

Which terminated all ; upon a tone, 

A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 

And his cheek change tempestuously, his heart 

Unknowing of its cause of agony. 

But she in these fond feelings had no share : 

Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 

Even as a brother, but no more ; 'twas much ; 

For brotherless she was, save in the name 

Her infant friendship had bestowed on him, 

Herself the solitary scion left 

Of a time-honored race. It was a name 

Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not — and 

why? 
Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved 
Another. Even now she loved another ; 
And on the summit of that hill she stood 
Looking afar, if yet her lover's steed 
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream : 

There was an ancient mansion ; and before 

Its walls there was a steed caparisoned. 

Within an antique oratory stood 

The boy of whom I spake ; he was alone. 

And pale, and pacing to and fro. Anon 

He sate him down, and seized a pen and traced 



THE DEJEAM. 



297 



Woi'ds which I could not guess of; then he 

leaned 
His bowed head on his hands, and shook, as 'twere 
With a convulsion ; then arose again, 
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
What he had written ; but he shed no tears. 
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
Into a kind of quiet. As he paused, 
The lady of his love re-entered there ; 
She was serene and smiling then ; and yet 
She knew she was by him beloved ; she knew — 
How quickly comes such knowledge! that his 

heart 
Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw 
That he was wretched ; but she saw not all. 
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 
A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced ; and then it faded as it came. 
He dropped the hand he held, and with slow 

steps 
Retired ; but not as bidding her adieu. 
For they did part with mutual smiles. He passed 
From out the massy gate of that old hall ; 
And, mounting on his steed, he went his way ; 
And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more. 

IV. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream : 
The boy was sprung to manhood. In the wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home, 
And his soul drank their sunbeams ; he was girt 
With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
There was a mass of many images 
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
A part of all ; and in the last he lay, 
Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
Couched among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruined walls that had survived the names 
Of those who reared them ; by his sleeping side 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Were fastened near a fountain ; and a man 
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, 
While many of his tribe slumbered around ; 
And they were canopied by the blue sky — 
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
That God alone was to be seen in heaven. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream ; 

The lady of his love was wed with one 

Who did not love her better. In her home, 

A thousand leagues from his, her native home. 

She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy. 

Daughters and sons of beauty. But behold ! 

Upon her face there was the tint of grief. 

The settled shadow of an inward strife, 

And an unquiet drooping of the eye, 

As if its lids were charged with unshed tears. 

What could her grief bef — She had all she 

loved ; 
And he who had so loved her was not there 
To trouble with bad hopes or evil wish. 
Or Hi-repressed afEection, her pure thoughts. 
What could her grief be? — she had loved him 

not. 
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved ; 
Nor could he be a part of that which preyed 
Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream : 

The wanderer was returned — I saw him stand 

Before an altar, with a gentle bride ; 

Her face was fair ; but was not that which made 

The starlight of his boyhood. As he stood. 

Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 

The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock 

That in the antique oratory shook 

His bosom in its solitude; and then — 

As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 

The tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced — and then it faded as it came ; 

And he stood calm and quiet ; and he spoke 

The fitting vows, but heard not his own words ; 

And all things reeled around him ; he could 

see 
Not that which was, nor that which should have 

been. 
But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall, 
And the remembered chambers, and the place. 
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade — 
All things pertaining to that place and hour. 
And her who was his destiny — came back 
And thrust themselves between him and the 

light ; 
What business had they there at such a time 1 



298 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream : 
The lady of his love — oh ! she was changed, 
As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 
Had wandered from its dwelling ; and her eyes, 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
"Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things. 
And forms impalpable, and unperceived 
Of others' sight, familiar were to hers. 
And this the world calls frenzy ; but the wise 
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
What is it but the telescope of truth ? 
Which strips the distance of its fantasies, 
And brings life near to utter nakedness, 
Making the cold reality too real ! 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream : 
The wanderer was alone, as heretofore ; 
The beings which surrounded him were gone. 
Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
For blight and desolation — compassed round 
With hatred and contention ; pain was mixed 
In all which was served up to him ; until. 
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days. 
He fed on poisons ; and they had no power, 
But were a kind of nutriment. He lived 
Through that which had been death to many 

men; 
And made him friends of mountains. With the 

stars, 
And the quick spirit of the universe, 
He held his dialogues, and they did teach 
To him the magic of their mysteries ; 
To him the book of night was opened wide. 
And voices from the deep abyss revealed 
A marvel and a secret — Be it so. 



My dream was past ; it had no further change. 

It was of a strange order, that the doom ' 

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 

Almost like a reality — the one 

To end in madness — both in misery. 

LOKD Bykon. 



JDitJibcb. 



An empty sky, a world of heather, 
Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom : 

We two among them wading together, 
Shaking out honey, treading perfume. 

Crowds of bees are giddy with clover. 
Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet : 

Crowds of larks at their matins hang over, 
Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet. 

Flusheth the rise with her purple favor, 
Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring, 

'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver. 
Lightly settle, and sleepily swing. 

We two walk till the purple dieth, 

And short dry grass under foot is brown, 

But one little streak at a distance lieth 
Green, like a ribbon, to prank the down. 



Over the grass we stepped unto it. 
And God, He knoweth how blithe we were ! 

Never a voice to bid us eschew it ; 
Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair ! 

Hey the green ribbon ! we kneeled beside it. 
We parted the grasses dewy and sheen ; 

Drop over drop there filtered and slided 
A tiny bright beck that trickled between. 

Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us, 
Light was our talk as of faery bells — 

Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us, 
Down in their fortunate parallels. 

Hand in hand, while the sun peered over. 
We lapped the grass on that youngling spring. 

Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover. 
And said, " Let us follow it westering." 

HI. 

A dappled sky, a world of meadows ; 

Circling above us the black rooks fly. 
Forward, backward : lo, their dark shadows 

Flit on the blossoming tapestry — 



DIVIDED. 



299 



Flit on the beck — for her long grass parteth, 
As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back ; 

And lo, the sun like a lover darteth 
His flattering smile on her wayward track. 

Sing on I we sing in the glorious weather, 

Till one steps over the tiny strand, 
So narrow, in sooth, that still together 

On either brink we go hand in hand. 

The beck grows wider, the hands must sever. 

On either margin, our songs all done, 
"We move apart, while she singeth ever. 

Taking the course of the stooping sun. 

He prays, " Come over " — I may not follow ; 

I cry, "Return" — but he cannot come: 
We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow ; 

Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb. 

IV. 

A breathing sigh — a sigh for answer ; 

A little talking of outward things : 
The careless beck is a merry dancer, 

Keeping sweet time to the air she sings. 

A little pain when the beck grows wider — 
" Cross to me now, for her wavelets swell : " 

" I may not cross " — and the voice beside her 
Faintly reacheth, though heeded well. 

No backward path ; ah ! no returning : 
No second crossing that ripple's flow : 

" Come to me now, for the west is burning : 
Come ere it darkens." — " Ah, no ! ah, no ! " 

Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching*— 
The beck grows wider and swift and deep ; 

Passionate words as of one beseeching — 

The loud beck drowns them : we walk and weep. 



A yellow moon in splendor drooping, 
A tired queen with her state oppressed, 

Low by rushes and sword-grass stooping, 
Lies she soft on the waves at rest. 

The desert heavens have felt her sadness ; 

Her earth will weep her some dewy tears ; 
The wild beck ends her tune of gladness. 

And goeth stilly as soul that fears. 



We two walk on in our grassy places. 
On either marge of the moonlit flood. 

With the moon's own sadness in our faces, 
Where joy is withered, blossom and bud. 

VI. 

A shady freshness, chafers whirring, 

A little piping of leaf-hid birds ; 
A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring, 

A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds. 

Bare grassy slopes, where the kids are tethered, 
Round valleys like nests all ferny-lined ; 

Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered, 
Swell high in their freckled robes behind. 

A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver. 
When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide ; 

A flashing edge for the milk-white river, 
The beck, a river — with stUl sleek tide. 

Broad and white, and polished as silver, 
On she goes under fruit-laden trees ; 

Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver. 
And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties. 

Glitters the dew, and shines the river ; 

Up comes the lily and dries her bell ; 
But two are walking apart forever. 

And wave their hands for a mute farewell. 



A braver swell, a swifter sliding; 

The river hasteth, her banks recede ; 
Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding 

Bear down the lily, and drown the reed. 

Stately prows are rising and bowing — 
(Shouts of mariners winnow the air) — 

And level sands for banks endowing 
The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair. 

While, my heart ! as white sails shiver. 
And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide. 

How hard to follow, with lips that quiver. 
That moving speck on the far-off side ! 

Farther, farther — I see it — know it — 

My eyes brim over, it melts away : 
Only my heart to my heart shall show it, 

As I walk desolate day by day. 



300 POEMS OF LOVE. 


Tin. 


We parted in silence — our cheeks were wet 


And yet I know past all doubting, truly, — 


With the tears that were past controlling ; 


A knowledge greater than grief can dim — 


We vowed we would never— no, never forget. 


I know, as he loved, he will love me duly — 


And those vows at the time were consoling ; 


Yea, better — e'en better than I love him ; 


But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine 




Are as cold as that lonely river ; 


And as I walk by the vast calm river. 


And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine, 


The awful river so dread to see. 


Has shrouded its fires for ever. 


I say, " Thy breadth and thy depth forever 




Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to 


And now on the midnight sky I look, 


me." 


And my heart grows full of weeping ; 


Jean Inselow. 


Each star is to me a sealed book, 




Some tale of that loved one keeping. 




We parted in silence — we parted in tears. 


^sk iHc no more. 


On the banks of that lonely river : 
But the odor and bloom of those by-gone years 


Ask me no more : the moon may draw the 


Shall hang o'er its waters for ever. 


sea; 


Jui-iA Crawfoed. 


The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the 




shape, 




With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape. 




But, oh too fond, when have I answered thee ? 


tDl)en toe Sroo |)arteb. 


Ask me no more. 






When we two parted 


Ask me no more: what answer should I give? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye ; 


In silence and tears. 


Half broken-hearted, 


Yet, my friend, I will not have thee die ! 


To sever for years. 


Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; 


Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 




Colder thy kiss ; 


Ask me no more. 






Truly that hour foretold 


Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are sealed. 


Sorrow to this. 


I strove against the stream and all in vain. 
Let the great river take me to the main. 
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 


The dew of the morning 
Sunk chill on my brow — 
• It felt like the warning 


Ask me no more ! 






Of what I feel now. 


Altoed Tenktson. 


Thy vows are all broken. 




And light is thy fame ; 




I hear thy name spoken. 


toe ^axlzh in Silence. 


And share in its shame. 


"We parted in silence, we parted by night. 


They name thee before me, 


On the banks of that lonely river ; 


A knell to mine ear ; 


Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite. 


A shudder comes o'er me — 


We met, and we parted for ever? ' 


Why wert thou so dear ? 


The night-bird sang, and the stars above 


They know not I knew thee, 


Told many a touching story, 


Who knew thee too well. 


Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love. 


Long, long, shall I rue thee 


Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. 


Too deeply to tell. 



IN A 


YEAR. 301 


In secret we met — 


" Speak — I love thee best ! " 


In silence I grieve, 


He exclaimed — 


That thy heart could forget, 


" Let thy love my own foretell." 


Thy spirit deceive. 


I confessed : 


If I should meet thee 


" Clasp my heart on thine 


After long years. 


Now unblamed. 


How should I greet thee? — 


Since upon thy soul as well 


In silence and tears. 


Hangeth mine ! " 


Lord Bteon. 






Was it vsTong to own. 




Being truth ? 




Why should all the giving prove 


In a fear. 


His alone ? 




I had wealth and ease, 


Never any more 


Beauty, youth — 


While I live, 


Since my lover gave me love. 


Need I hope to see his face 


I gave these. 


As before. 




Once his love grown chill, 


That was all I meant. 


Mine may strive — 


— To be Just, 


Bitterly we re-embrace. 


And the passion I had raised 


Single still. 


To content. 




Since he chose to change 


"Was it something said. 


Gold for dust, 


Something done. 


If I gave him what he praised 


Vexed him ? was it touch of hand, 


Was it strange 1 


Turn of head ? 


Strange ! that very way 


Would he loved me yet. 


Love begun. 


On and on, 


I as little understand 


While I found some way undreamed 


Love's decay. 


— Paid my debt! 




Gave more life and more. 


When I sewed or drew. 


Till, all gone, 


I recall 


He should smile " She never seemed 


How he looked as if I sang 


Mine before. 


— Sweetly too. 




If I spoke a word, 


" What — she felt the while, 


First of all 


Must I think? 


Up his cheek the color sprang, 


Love 's so different with us men," 


Then he heard. 


He should smile. 




"Dying for my sake — 


Sitting by my side, 


White and pink ! 


At my feet. 


Can't we touch these bubbles then 


So he breathed the air I breathed, 


But they break?" 


Satisfied ! 




I, too, at love's brim 


Dear, the pang is brief. 


Touched the sweet. 


Do thy part. 


I would die if death bequeathed 


Have thy pleasure. How perplext 


Sweet to him. 


Grows belief ! 



302 



P0E3IS OF LOVE. 



Well, this cold clay clod 

Was man's heart. 

Crumble it — and what comes next ? 

Is it God? 

Robert Bkowning. 



iltariana in tl)e Sotttl). 

With one black shadow at its feet, 

The house through all the level shines. 
Close-latticed to the brooding heat, 

And silent in its dusty vines ; 
A faint-blue ridge upon the right, 
An empty river-bed before, 
And shallows on a distant shore. 
In glaring sand and inlets bright. 

But " Ave Mary," made she moan, 

And " Ave Mary," night and morn ; 

And " Ah," she sang, " to be all alone. 

To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 

She, as her carol sadder grew, 

From brow and bosom slowly down 
Through rosy taper fingers drew 

Her streaming curls of deepest brown 
To left and right, and made appear, 
Still lighted in a secret shrine, 
Her melancholy eyes divine, 
The home of woe without a tear. 

And " Ave Mary," was her moan, 

" Madonna, sad is night and morn ; " 
And " Ah," she sang, " to be all alone. 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 

Till all the crimson changed, and passed 

Into deep orange o'er the sea. 
Low on her knees herself she east. 

Before Our Lady murmured she ; 

Complaining, " Mother, give me grace 

To help me of my weary load ! " 

And on the liquid mirror glowed 

The clear perfection of her face. 

" Is this the form," she made her moan, 

" That won his praises night and morn f " 
And " Ah, " she said, " but I wake alone, 
I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn." 

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, 
Nor any cloud would cross the vault ; 



But day increased from heat to heat. 

On stony drought and steaming salt; 
Till now at noon she slept again. 
And seemed knee-deep in mountain grass. 
And heard her native breezes pass. 
And runlets babbling down the glen. 
She breathed in sleep a lower moan ; 

And murmuring, as at night and morn, 
She thought, " My spirit is here alone, 
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn." 

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream ; 
She felt he was and was not there. 
She woke : the babble of the stream 
Fell, and without the steady glare 
Shrank the sick olive sere and small. 
The river-bed was dusty white ; 
And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding wall. 
She whispered, with a stifled moan 

More inward than at night or morn, 
" Sweet mother, let me not here alone 
Live forgotten, and die forlorn." 

And, rising, from her bosom drew 

Old letters, breathing of her worth ; 
For " Love, " they said, " must needs be true, 

To what is loveliest upon earth." 
An image seemed to pass the door. 
To look at her with slight, and say, 
" But now thy beauty flows away. 
So be alone for evermore. " 

" cruel heart," she changed her tone, 
"And cruel love, whose end is scorn, 
Is this the end — to be left alone, 
To live forgotten, and die forlorn ! " 

But sometimes in the falling day 

An image seemed to pass the door. 
To look into her eyes and say, 

" But thou shalt be alone no more." 
And flaming downward over all. 

From heat to heat the day decreased, 
And slowly rounded to the east 
The one black shadow from the wall. 

" The day to night," she made her moan, 
" The day to night, the night to morn. 
And day and night I am left alone, 
To live forffotten, and love forlorn." 



FIRST AND LAST. 



303 



At eve a dry cicala sung ; 

There came a sound as of the sea ; 
Backward the lattice-blind she flung, 

And leaned upon the balcony. 
There, all in spaces rosy-bright. 
Large Hesper glittered on her tears. 
And deepening through the silent spheres. 
Heaven over heaven, rose the night. 

And weeping then she made her moan, 

" The night comes on that knows not morn ; 
"When I shall cease to be all alone, 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn. " 

Alpked Tennyson. 



Song. 

" A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, • 

A weary lot is thine ! 
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 

And press the rue for wine ! 
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 

A feather of the blue, 
A doublet of the Lincoln green — 

No more of me you knew, 
My love ! 

No more of me you knew. 

" The morn is merry June, I trow — 

The rose is budding fain ; 
But she shall bloom in winter snow 

Ere we two meet again." 
He turned his charger as he spake. 

Upon the river shore ; 
He gave his bridle-reins a shake. 

Said, " Adieu for evermore, 
My love ! 

And adieu for evermore." 

Sir Walter Scott. 



iTirst onb £ast. 

They sat together, hand in hand. 
The sunset flickered low ; 

The fickle sea crept up the strand. 
And caught the after-glow. 



He sang a song, a little song 

No other poet knew, 
And she looked up and thought him strong. 

Looked down and dreamed him true. 

The fickle sea crept up the strand. 

And laughed a wanton laugh ; 
Took up the song the poet planned, 

And sang the other half. 

Times change ; the two went diverse ways : 

The evening shades increase 
On him, grown old in fame and praise. 

And her in household peace. 

The echo of the false, sweet words 

He spoke so long ago 
Has passed as pass the summer birds 

Before the winter snow. 

But as to-night the angel's hand 

Loosens the silver cord, 
And calls her to that other land 

Of love's supreme reward. 

She hears but one sound, silent, long, 

A whisper soft and low. 
The echo of the false, sweet song 

He sang so long ago. 

Anonymous. 



£ocksleB ^a\l 

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis 

early mom — 
Leave me here, aiid when you want me, sound upon 

the bugle horn. 

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the cur- 
lews call. 

Dreary gleams about the moorland, flying over 
Locksley Hall ; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the 
sandy tracts, 

And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cata- 
racts. 



304 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I 

■went to rest, 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the 

west. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the 

mellow shade, 
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver 

braid. 

Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing a 

youth sublime 
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result 

of time ; 

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land 

reposed ; 
When I clung to all the present for the promise 

that it closed ; 

When I dipt into the future far as human eye 

could see — 
Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder 

that would be. 

In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the 

robin's breast ; 
In the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself 

another crest ; 

In the spring a livelier iris changes on the bur- 
nished dove ; ' 

In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to 
thoughts of love. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should 
be for one so young. 

And her eyes on all my motions with a mute ob- 
servance hung. 

And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the 

truth to me ; 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets 

to thee." ,. 

On her paUid cheek and forehead came a color and 
a light. 

As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the north- 
ern night. 



And she turned — her bosom shaken with a sud- 
den storm of sighs — 

All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel 
eyes — 

Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they 

should do me wrong ; " 
Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin ? " weeping, 

" I have loved thee long." 

Love took up the glass of time, and turned it in 

his glowing hands ; 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden 

sands. 

Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the 

chords with might ; 
Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in 

music out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the 
copses ring. 

And her whisper thronged my pulses with the ful- 
ness of the spring. 

Many an evening by the waters did we watch tlie 

stately ships. 
And our spirits rushed together at the touching of 

the lips. 

Oh my cousin, shallow-hearted ! Oh my Amy, 

mine no more ! 
Oh the dreary, dreary moorland ! Oh the barren, 

barren shore ! 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs 
have sung — 

Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrew- 
ish tongue ! 

Is it well to wish thee happy? — having known 

me ; to decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart 

than mine ! 

Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by 
day. 

What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympa- 
thize with clay. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 



305 



As the husband is, the wife is ; thou art mated with 

a clown, 
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to 

drag thee down. 

He wiU hold thee, when his passion shall have 

spent its novel force, 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than 

his horse. 

What is this? his eyes are heavy — think not they 

are glazed with wine. 
Go to him; it is thy duty — kiss him; take his 

hand in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is over- 
wrought — 

Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with 
thy lighter thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to 

understand — 
Better thou wert dead before me, though I slew 

thee with my hand. 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the 

heart's disgrace, 
Rolled in one another's arms, and sUent in a last 

embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the 

strength of youth ! 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the 

living truth ! 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest 
nature's rule ! 

Cursed be the gold that gUds the straitened fore- 
head of the fool ! 

Well — 'tis well that I should bluster! — Hadst 

thou less unworthy proved. 
Would to God — for I had loved thee more than 

ever wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears 

but bitter fruit! 
I will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart be 

at the root. 

23 



Never ! though my mortal summers to such length 

of years should come 
As the many-wintered crow that leads the clanging 

rookery home. 

Where is comfort % in division of the records of the 

mind? 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew 

her, kind ? 

I remember one that perished ; sweetly did she 

speak and move ; 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to 

love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the 

love she bore ? 
No — she never loved me truly; love is love for 

evermore. 

Comfort ? comfort scorned of devUs ! this is truth 

the poet sings. 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering 

happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy 

heart be put to proof. 
In the dead, unhappy night, and when the rain is 

on the roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams ; and thou art star- 
ing at the wall, 

Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the 
shadows rise and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his 

drunken sleep. 
To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the tears that 

thou wilt weep. 

Thou shalt hear the " Never, never," whispered by 

the phantom years, 
And a song from out the distance in the ringing of 

thine ears; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness 

on thy pain. 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow ; get thee to thy 

rest again. 



306 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Nay, but nature brings thee solace ; for a tender 

voice will cry ; 
'Tis a purer life than thine; a lip to drain thy 

trouble dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down ; my latest rival 

brings thee rest — 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the 

mother's breast. 

Oh, the child, too, clothes the father with a deamess 

not his due ; 
Half is thine, and half is his — it will be worthy of 

the two. 

Oh, I see thee, old and formal, fitted to thy petty 

part. 
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down 

a daughter's heart : 

"They were dangerous guides, the feelings — she 

herself was not exempt — 
Truly, she herself had suffered." Perish in thy 

self -contempt ! 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy ! wherefore 

should I care 1 
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by 

despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon 

days like these? 
Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to 

golden keys. 

Every gate is thronged with suitors ; all the 

markets overflow. 
I have but an angry fancy: what is that which 

I should do? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's 

ground, 
Wlien the ranks are rolled in vapor, ^nd the winds 

are laid with sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that 

honor feels. 
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each 

other's heels. 



Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that earlier 

page. 
Hide me from my deep emotion, thou wondrous 

mother-age ! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before 

the strife. 
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult 

of my life ; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming 

years would yield — 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his 

father's field, 

And at night along the dusky highway near and 

nearer drawn. 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like 

a dreary dawn ; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before 

him then, 
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the 

throngs of men — 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping 

something new : 
That which they have done but earnest of the 

things that they shall do ; 

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could 

see — 
Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder 

that would be — 

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of 

magic sails. 
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with 

costly bales ; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there 
rained a ghastly dew 

Prom the nations' airy navies grappling in the cen- 
tral blue ; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south- 
wind rushing warm. 

With the standards of the peoples plunging through 
the thunder-storm ; 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 



307 



Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the 

battle-flags were furled 
In the parliament of man, the federation of the 

world. 

There the common sense of most shall hold a fret- 
ful realm in awe, 

And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in uni- 
versal law. 

So I triumphed, ere my passion, sweeping through 

me, left me dry, 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with 

the jaundiced eye — 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are 

out of joint. 
Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on 

from point to point ; 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping 
nigher. 

Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly- 
dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing 

purpose runs. 
And the thoughts of men are widened with the 

process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his 

youthful joys. 
Though the deep heart of existence beat for ever 

like a boy's % 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers ; and I lin- 
ger on the shore. 

And the individual withers, and the world is more 
and more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he 

bears a laden breast. 
Full of sad experience moving toward the stillness 

of his rest. 

Hark ! my merry comrades call me, sounding on 

the bugle horn — 
They to whom my foolish passion were a target for 

their scorn ; 



Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a 

mouldered string? 
I am shamed through all my nature to have loved 

so slight a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's 

pleasure, woman's pain — 
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a 

shallower brain ; 

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, 

matched with mine. 
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto 

wine — 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, 

for some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining orient, where my life began 

to beat ! 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father, evil- 
starred ; 

I was left a trampled orphan, and a. selfish uncle's 
ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander 

far away, 
On from island unto island at the gateways of the 



Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and 

happy skies. 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, 

knots of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an European 

flag- 
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, droops the 

trailer from the crag — 

Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the 

heavy-fruited tree — 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres 

of sea. 

There, methinks, would be enjoyment more than 

in this march of mind — 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts 

that shake mankind. 



308 



P0E3IS OF LOVE. 



There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have 

scope and breathing-space ; 
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my 

dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive, and 

they shall run, 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their 

lances in the sun ; 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rain- 
bows of the brooks. 

Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable 
books. 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know my 

words are wild, 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the 

Christian child. 

I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our 

glorious gains. 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with 

lower pains ! 

Mated with a squalid savage, what to me were sun 

or clime 1 
I, the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of 

time — 

I, that rather held it better men should perish one 

by one, 
Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's 

moon in Ajalon ! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, for- 
ward let us range ; 

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing 
grooves of change. 

Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into 
the younger day : 

Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Ca- 
thay. » 

Mother-age, (for mine I knew not,) help me as 
when life begun — 

Eift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the light- 
nings, weigh the sun — 



Oh, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath 

not set ; 
Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my 

fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to 

Locksley Hall ! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the 

roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over 

heath and holt, 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a 

thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or 

fi.re or snow ; 

For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and 

I go. 

Alfred Tbnntson. 



®1) \\)ai 'iroerc possible. 

Oh that 'twere possible, 

After long grief and pain, 
To find the arms of my true love 

Round me once again ! 

When I was wont to meet her 

In the silent woody places 
Of the land that gave me birth. 

We stood tranced in long embraces 
Mixt with kisses sweeter, sweeter 

Than anything on earth. 

A shadow flits before me, 

Not thou, but like to thee ; 
Ah Christ, that it were possible 

For one short hour to see 
The souls we loved, that they might tell us 

What and where they be ! 

It leads me forth at evening. 

It lightly winds and steals 
In a cold white robe before me. 

When all my spirit reels 
At the shouts, the leagues of lights. 

And the roaring of the wheels. 



ORPHEUS TO BEASTS. 309 


Half the night I waste in sighs, 


Through the hubbub of the market 


Half in dreams I sorrow after 


I steal, a wasted frame ; 


The delight of early skies ; 


It crosses here, it crosses there. 


In a wakeful doze I sorrow 


Through all that crowd confused and loud 


For the hand, the lips, the eyes — 


The shadow still the same ; 


For the meeting of the morrow, 


And on my heavy eyelids 


The delight of happy laughter. 


My anguish hangs like shame. 


The delight of low replies. 






Alas for her that met me. 


'Tis a morning pure and sweet. 


That heard me softly call, 


And a dewy splendor falls 


Came glimmering through the laurels 


On the little flower that clings 


At the quiet evenfall. 


To the turrets and the walls ; 


In the garden by the turrets 


'Tis a morning pure and sweet. 


Of the old manorial hall ! 


And the light and shadow fleet : 
She is walking in the meadow, 
And the woodland echo rings. 
In a moment we shall meet ; 


Would the happy spirit descend 


From the realms of light and song, 


In the chamber or the street. 


She is singing in the meadow. 
And the rivulet at her feet 


As she looks among the blest. 
Should I fear to greet my friend 


Ripples on in light and shadow 
To the ballad that she sings. 


Or to say " Forgive the wrong," 
Or to ask her, " Take me, sweet. 




To the regions of thy rest ? " 


Do I hear her sing as of old, 


But the broad light glares and beats, 


My bird with the shining head, 


And the shadow flits and fleets 


My own dove with the tender eye % 


And will not let me be ; 


But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry — 


And 1 loathe the squares and streets. 


There is some one dying or dead ; 


And the faces that one meets. 


And a sullen thunder is rolled ; 


Hearts with no love for me ; 


For a tumult shakes the city, 
And I wake — my dream is fled ; 


Always I long to creep 
Into some still cavern deep. 


In the shuddering dawn, behold. 
Without knowledge, without pity, 


There to weep, and weep, and weep 
My whole soul out to thee. 


By the curtains of my bed 


Alfred Tennyson. 


That abiding phantom cold ! 




Get thee hence, nor come again ! 
Mix not memory with doubt, 


®rplicu0 to Beasts. 


Pass, thou deathlike type of pain. 


Here, here, oh here, Eurydice — 


Pass and cease to move about ! 


Here was she slain — 


'Tis the blot upon the brain 


Her soul 'stilled through a vein ; 


That will show itself without. 


The gods knew less 




That time divinity, 


Then I rise ; the eave-drops fall, 


Than even, even these 


And the yellow vapors choke 


Of brutishness. 


The great city sounding wide ; 




The day comes — a dull red ball 


Oh could you view the melody 


Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 


Of every grace, 


On the misty river-tide. 


And music of her face, 



310 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



You'd drop a tear ; 
Seeing more harmony 
In her bright eye, 
Than now you hear. 

KiCHABD Lovelace. 



Bemembroncc. 

Cold in the earth, and the deep snow piled above 
thee, 

Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave ! 
Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, 

Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave ? 

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer 
hover 
Over the mountains, on that northern shore, 
Eesting their wings where heath and fern-leaves 
cover 
Thy noble heart for ever, evermore ? 

Cold in the earth, and fifteen wild Decembers, 
Prom those brown hills have melted into spring : 

Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers 
After such years of change and suffering ! 

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, 
While the world's tide is bearing me along ; 

Other desires and other hopes beset me, 
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong ! 

No later light has lightened up my heaven. 
No second morn has ever shone for me ; 

All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given. 
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee. 

But, when the days of golden dreams had per- 
ished. 
And even Despair was powerless to destroy ; 
Then did I learn how existence could be cher- 
ished. 
Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy. 

« 

Then did I check the tears of useless passion — 
Weaned my young soul from yearning after 
thine ; 

Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten 
Down to that tomb already more than mine. 



And, even yet, I dare not let it languish. 
Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain ; 

Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, 
How could I seek the empty world again f 

Emilt Bbontb. 



The bloom hath fled thy cheek, Maiy, 

As spring's rath blossoms die ; 
And sadness hath o'ershadowed now 

Thy once bright eye ; 
But look ! on me the prints of grief 

Still deeper lie. 
Farewell ! 

Thy lips are pale and mute, Mary ; 

Thy step is sad and slow ; 
The morn of gladness hath gone by 

Thou erst did know ; 
I, too, am changed like thee, and weep 

For very woe. 

Farewell ! 

It seems as 'twere but yesterday 

We were the happiest twain, 
When murmured sighs and joyous tears, 

Dropping like rain, 
Discoursed my love, and told how loved 

I was again. 

Farewell ! 

'Twas not in cold and measured phrase 

We gave our passion name ; 
Scorning such tedious eloquence, 

Our hearts' fond flame 
And long-imprisoned feelings fast 

In deep sobs came. 
Farewell ! 

Would that our love had been the love 

That merest worldlings know. 
When passion's draught to our doomed lips 

Turns utter woe. 
And our poor dream of happiness 

Vanishes so ! 

Farewell ! 



JEANIE MORRISON. 311 


But in the wreck of all our hopes 


But had I wist, before I kissed. 


There 's yet some touch of bliss, 


That love had been sae ill to win. 


Since fate robs not our wretchedness 


I'd locked my heart in a case of gold, 


Of this last kiss : 


And pinned it with a silver pin. 


Despair, and love, and madness meet 




In this, in this. 


Oh, oh, if my young babe were born. 


Farewell 1 


And set upon the nurse's knee. 


William Motherwell. 


And I mysell were dead and gane. 




And the green grass growin' over me ! 




Anonymous. 


toals, roalg, but tovz be jBonna. 




Oh waly, waly up the bank. 
And waly, waly, down the brae. 


Jfeanie iHorrison. 


And waly, waly yon burnside. 


I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 


Where I and my love wont to gae. 


Through mony a weary way ; 


I leaned my back unto an aik, 

I thought it was a trusty tree ; 
But first it bowed, and syne it brak — 


But never, never can forget 


The luve o' life's young day ! 
The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en 


Sae my true love did lightly me ! 


May weel be black gin Yule ; 
But blacker fa' awaits the heart 


Oh waly, waly, but love be bonny. 


Where first fond luve grows cule. 


A little time while it is new ; 




But when 'tis auld it waxeth cauld, 


dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 


And fades away like the morning dew. 


The thochts o' bygane years 




Still fling their shadows ower my path, 


Oh wherefore should T busk my head ? 


And blind my een wi' tears : 


Or wherefore should I kame my hair ? 


They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears. 


For my true love has me forsook. 


And sair and sick I pine. 


And says he'll never love me mair. 


As memory idly summons up 




The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 


Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed ; 




The sheets shall ne'er be f yled by me ; 


'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel. 


Saint Anton's well shall be my drink, 


'Twas then we twa did part ; 


Since my true love has forsaken me. 


Sweet time — sad time ! twa bairns at scule. 


Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw. 


Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 


And shake the green leaves oil the tree ? 


'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink. 


gentle death, when wilt thou come % 


To leir ilk ither lear ; 


And tones and looks and smiles were shed. 


For of my life I'm weary. 


Remembered evermair. 


'Tis not the frost that freezes fell. 




Nor blawing snaw's inclemency ; 


I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, 


'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry. 


When sitting on that bink. 


But my love's heart grown cauld to me. 


Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof. 




What our wee heads could think. 


When we came in by Glasgow town, 


When baith bent doun ower ae braid page. 


We were a comely sight to see ; 


Wi' ae bulk on our knee, 


My love was clad in the black velvet. 


Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 


And I mysell in cramasie. 


My lesson was in thee. 



313 POEMS OF LOVE. 


Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, 


Oh, tell me gin their music fills 


How cheeks brent red wi' shame, 


Thine ear as it does mine ! 


Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said 


Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit 


We cleeked thegither hame? 


Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ? 


And mind ye o' the Saturdays, 




(The seule then skail't at noon,) 


I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 


When we ran ofE to speel the braes. 


I've borne a weary lot ; 


The broomy braes o' June ? 


But in my wanderings, far or near, 




Ye never were forgot. 


My head rins round and round about — 


The fount that first burst frae this heart 


My heart flows like a sea. 


Still travels on its way ; 


As ane by ane the thoehts rush back 


And channels deeper, as it rins, 


0' scule-time and o' thee. 


The luve o' life's young day. 


Oh mornin' life ! oh mornin' luve ! 




Oh lichtsome days and lang. 


dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 


When hinnied hopes around our hearts 


Since we were sindered young 


Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 


I've never seen your face nor heard 




The music o' your tongue ; 


Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 


But I could hug all wretchedness, 


The deavin' dinsome toun, 


And happy could 1 die. 


To wander by the green burnside, 


Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 


And hear its waters croon ? 


0' bygane days and me ! 


The simmer leaves hung ower our heads. 


William Motherwell. 


The flowers burst round our feet. 




And in the gloamin o' the wood 




The throssil whusslit sweet ; 


JUS %t\^ is like to Hcnb, tOillic. 


The throssil whusslit in the wood. 


My heid is like to rend,Willie, 


The burn sang to the trees — 


My heart is like to break ; 


And we, with nature's heart in tune. 


I'm wearin' afE my feet, Willie, 


Concerted harmonies ; 


I'm dyin' for your sake ! 


And on the knowe abune the burn 


Oh, lay your cheek to mine, Willie, 


For hours thegither sat 


Your hand on my briest-bane ; 


In the silentness o' joy, till baith 


Oh, say ye'll think on me, Willie, 


Wi' very gladness grat. 


When I am deid and gane ! 


Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, 


It's vain to comfort me, Willie — 


Tears trinkled doun your cheek 


Sair grief maun ha'e its will ; 


Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nana 


But let me rest upon your briest 


Had ony power to speak ! 


To sab and greet my fill. 


That was a time, a blessed time. 


Let me sit on your knee, Willie, 


When hearts were fresh and young, 


Let me shed by your hair, 


When freely gushed all feelings forth. 


And look into the face, Willie, 


Unsyllabled — unsung ! , 


I never sail see mair ! 


I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 


I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie, 


Gin I hae been to thee 


For the last time in my life. 


As closely twined wi' earliest thoehts 


A puir heart-broken thing, Willie, 


As ye hae been to me ? 


A mither, yet nae wife. 



THE ROSE AND THE GAUNTLET. 



313 



Ay, press your hand upon my heart, 

And press it mair and mair. 
Or it will burst the silken twine, 

Sae Strang is its despair. 

Oh, wae's me for the hour, Willie, 

When we thegither met ! 
Oh, wae's me for the time, Willie, 

That our first tryst was set ! 
Oh, wae's me for the loanin' green 

Where we were wont to gae, 
And wae's me for the destinie 

That gart me luve thee sae I 

Oh, dinna mind my words, Willie — 

I downa seek to blame ; 
But oh, it's hard to live, Willie, 

And dree a warld's shame ! 
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek, 

And hailin' ower your chin : 
Why weep ye sae for worthlessness, 

For sorrow, and for sin ? 

I'm weary o' this warld, WUlie, 

And sick wi' a' I see, 
I canna live as I ha'e lived. 

Or be as I should be. 
But fauld unto your heart, Willie, 

The heart that still is thine. 
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek 

Ye said was red langsyne. 

A stoun' gaes through my held, Willie — 

A sair stoun' through ray heart ; 
Oh, haud me up and let me kiss 

Thy brow ere we twa pairt. 
Anither, and anither yet ! 

How fast my life-strings break ! 
Fareweel ! fareweel ! through yon kirk-yard 

Step lichtly for my sake ! 

The lav'rock in the lift, Willie, 

That lilts far ower our heid, 
Will sing the morn as merrilie 

Abune the clay-cauld deid ; 
And this green turf we're sittin' on, 

Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen, 
Will hap the heart that luvit thee 

As warld has seldom seen. 



But oh, remember me, Willie, 

On land where'er ye be ! 
And oh, think on the leal, leal heart. 

That ne'er luvit ane but thee ! 
And oh, think on the cauld, cauld mools 

That file my yellow hair. 
That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin, 

Ye never sail kiss mair ! 

William Motherwell. 



Wc\z Kose anir tl)e CSauntlet. 

Low spake the knight to the peasant-girl : 
" I tell thee sooth, I am belted earl ; 
Fly with me from this garden small. 
And thou shalt sit in my castle's hall ; 

" Thou shalt have pomp, and wealth, and pleasure, 
Joys beyond thy fancy's measure ; 
Here with my sword and horse I stand, 
To bear thee away to my distant land. 

" Take, thou fairest ! this full-blown rose, 

A token of love that as ripely blows." 

With his glove of steel he plucked the token. 

But it fell from his gauntlet crushed and broken. 

The maiden exclaimed, " Thou seest, sir knight, 
Thy fingers of iron can only smite ; 
And, like the rose thou hast torn and scattered, 
I in thy grasp should be wrecked and shattered." 

She trembled and blushed, and her glances fell ; 
But she turned from the knight, and said, " Fare- 
well!" 
" Not so," he cried, " will I lose my prize ; 
I heed not thy words, but I read thine eyes." 

He lifted her up in his grasp of steel. 

And he mounted and spurred with furious heel ; 

But her cry drew forth her hoary sire. 

Who snatched his bow from above the fire. 

Swift from the valley the warrior fled, 
Swifter the bolt of the cross-bow sped ; 
And the weight that pressed on the fleet-foot 

horse 
Was the living man, and the woman's corse. 




314 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



That morning the rose was bright of hue ; 
That morning the maiden was fair to view ; 
But the evening sun its beauty shed 
On the withered leaves, and the maiden dead. 

John Sterling. 



iltouir iHulkr. 

Maud Muller, on a summer's day, 
Kaked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bix'd echoed from his tree. 

But, when she glanced to the far-off town, 
White from its hill-slope looking down. 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing filled her breast — 

A wish that she hardly dared to own. 
For something better than she had known. 

The judge rode slowly down the lane. 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid. 

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed 
Through the meadow, across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up. 
And filled for him her small tin cup. 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

" Thanks ! " said the judge, " a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 

t 
He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees. 

Of the singing birds and the humming bees ; 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
The cloud in the west would brinsr foul weather. 



And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown. 
And her graceful ankles, bare and brown. 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Muller looked and sighed : " Ah me ! 
That I the judge's bride might be ! 

" He would dress me up in silks so fine. 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

" My father should wear a broadcloth coat, 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

" I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, 
And the baby should have a new toy each day. 

" And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor. 
And all should bless me who left our door." 

The judge looked back as he climbed the hill. 
And saw Maud Muller standing still : 

" A form more fair, a face more sweet. 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

" And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

" Would she were mine, and I to-day. 
Like her, a harvester of hay. 

" No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs. 
Nor wean' lawyers with endless tongues, 

" But low of cattle, and song of birds, 
And health, and quiet, and loving words." 

But he thought of his sister, proud and cold. 
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the judge rode on. 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon. 
When he hummed in court an old love tune: 

And the young girl mused beside the well. 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 



HELIOTROPE. 315 


He wedded a wife of richest dower, 


Alas for maiden, alas for judge. 


Wlio lived for fashion, as he for power. 


For rich repiner and household drudge ! 


Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 


God pity them both ! and pity us all. 


He watched a picture come and go ; 


Who vainly the dreams of youth recall ; 


And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 


For of all sad words of tongue or pen. 


Looked out in their innocent surprise. 


The saddest are these : " It might have been ! " 


Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, 


Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 


He longed for the wayside well instead, 


Deeply buried from human eyes ; 


And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, 


And in the hereafter angels may 


To di-eam of meadows and clover blooms ; 


Roll the stone from its grave away ! 




John Gbeenleap Whittier. 


And the proud man sighed with a secret pain. 




" Ah, that I were free again ! 




" Free as when I rode that day 


f eliotrope. 


Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay. " 






Amid the chapel's checkered gloom 


She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 


She laughed with Dora and with Flora, 


And many children played round her door. 


And chattered in the lecture-room — 




The saucy little sophomora. 


But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain, 


Yet while, as in her other schools, 


Left their traces on heart and brain. 


She was a privileged transgressor. 


And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 


She never broke the simple rules 


On the new-mown hay in the meadoW lot, 


Of one particular professor. 


And she heard the little spring brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall, 


But when he spoke of varied lore 


Paroxytones and modes potential, 




She listened with a face that wore 


In the shade of the apple-tree again 


A look half fond, half reverential. 


She saw a rider draw his rein, 


To her, that earnest voice was sweet ; 




And, though her love had no confessor, 


And, gazing down with a timid grace, 


Her girlish heart lay at the feet 


She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 


Of that particular professor. 


Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 


And he had learned, among his books 


Stretched away into stately halls ; 


That held the lore of ages olden, 


The weary wheel to a spinnet turned. 
The tallow candle an astral burned ; 


To watch those ever-changing looks, 
The wistful eyes, and tresses golden, 




That stirred his pulse with passion's pain 


And for him who sat by the chimney lug. 


And thrilled his soul with soft desire, 


Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug. 


Longing for youth to come again. 




Crowned with its coronet of fire. 


A manly form at her side she saw, 




And joy was duty and love was law. 


Her sunny smile, her winsome ways. 




Were more to him than all his knowledge, 


Then she took up her burden of life again. 


And she preferred his words of praise 


Saying only, " It might have been." 


To all the honors of the college. 



316 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Yet "What am foolish I to him? " 
She whispered to her one confessor. 

" She thinks me old, and gray, and grim," 
In silence pondered the professor. 

Yet once, when Christmas bells were rung 

Above ten thousand solemn churches, 
And swelling anthems grandly sung 
Pealed through the dim cathedral arches — 
Ere home returning, filled with hope, 

Softly she stole by gate and gable, 
And a sweet spray of heliotrope 
Left on his littered study-table. 

Nor came she more, from day to day, 

Like sunshine through the shadows rifting ; 
Above her grave, far, far away, 

The ever-silent snows were drifting. 
And those who mourned her winsome face, 

Found in its stead a swift successor, 
And loved another in her place ; 
All, save the silent, old professor. 

But, in the tender twilight gray. 

Shut from the sight of carping critic, 
His lonely thoughts would often stray 
From Vedic verse and tongues Semitic — 
Bidding the ghost of perished hope 

Mock with its past the sad possessor 
Of the dead spray of heliotrope 
That once she gave the old professor. 

Anonymous. 



^uli& Hobin (Srag. 

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at 

hame. 
And a' the warld to sleep are gane ; 
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee. 
When my gudeman lies sound by me. 

Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and soeht me for his 

bride ; 
But, saving a croun, he had naething else beside. 
To mak that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to 

sea; 
And the croun and the pund were baith for me ! 



He hadna been awa a week but only twa, 

When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was 

stown awa ; 
My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the 

sea — 
And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me. 

My father couldna work, and my mother couldna 

spin; 
I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I couldna 

win; 
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in 

his ee. 
Said, " Jenny, for their sakes, oh marry me ! " 

My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie 

back; 
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a 

wrack ; 
The ship it was a wrack! Why didna Jamie 

dee? 
Or, why do I live to say, Wae 's me ? 

My father argued sair — my mother didna speak, 
But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to 

break ; 
Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart was 

in the sea ; 
And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me. 

I hadna been a wife, a week but only four. 
When, sitting sae mournfully at the door, 
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it 

he. 
Till he said, " I'm come back for to marry 

thee ! " 

Oh sair, sair did we greet, and muekle did we 

say; 
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away : 
I wish I were dead, but I'm no like to dee ; 
And why do I live to say, Wae's me? 

1 gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; 
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; 
But I'll do my best a gude wife to be. 
For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me. 

Lady Anne Bahnakd. 



BERTHA IN 


THE LANE. 317 




Mother, mother, thou art kind, 


Bcrtlja in tlje Cone. 


Thou art standing in the room. 




In a molten glory shrined, 


Put the broidery-frame away, 


That rays off into the gloom ! 


For my sewing is all done ! 


But thy smile is bright and bleak. 


The last thread is used to-day, 


Like cold waves — I cannot speak ; 


And I need not Join it on. 


I sob in it, and grow weak. 


Though the clock stands at the noon. 




I am weary ! 1 have sewn, 


Ghostly mother, keep aloof 


Sweet, for thee, a wedding-gown. 


One hour longer from my soul. 




For I still am thinking of 


Sister, help me to the bed, 


Earth's warm-beating joy and dole ! 


And stand near me, dearest-sweet ! 


On my finger is a ring 


Do not shrink nor be afraid, 


Which I still see glittering, 


Blushing with a sudden heat ! 


When the night hides every thing. 


No one standeth in the street ! 




By God's love I go to meet. 


Little sister, thou art pale ! 


Love I thee with love complete. 


Ah, I have a wandering brain. 




But I lose that fever-bale. 


Lean thy face down ! drop it in 


And my thoughts grow calm again. 


These two hands, that I may hold 


Lean down closer — closer still ! 


'Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin, 


I have words thine ear to fill. 


Stroking back the curls of gold. 


And would kiss thee at my will. 


'Tis a fair, fair face, in sooth — 




Larger eyes and redder mouth 


Dear, I heard thee in the spring. 


Than mine were in my first youth ! 


Thee and Robert, through the trees. 




When we all went gathering 


Thou art younger by seven years — 


Boughs of May-bloom for the bees. 


Ah ! — so bashful at my gaze 


Do not start so ! think instead 


That the lashes, hung with tears, 


How the sunshine overhead 


Grow too heavy to upraise ? 


Seemed to trickle through the shade. 


I would wound thee by no touch 




Which thy shyness feels as such — 


What a day it was, that day ! 


Dost thou mind me, dear, so much ? 


Hills and vales did openly 




Seem to heave and throb away. 


Have I not been nigh a mother 


At the sight of the great sky ; 


To thy sweetness — tell me, dear ? 


And the silence, as it stood 


Have we not loved one another 


In the glory's golden flood. 


Tenderly, from year to year! 


Audibly did bud, and bud 1 


Since our dying mother mild 




Said, with accents undefiled, 


Through the winding hedgerows green, 


" Child, be mother to this child! " 


How we wandered, I and you. 




With the bowery tops shut in. 


Mother, mother, up in heaven. 


And the gates that showed the view ; 


Stand up on the jasper sea. 


How we talked there ! thrushes soft 


And be witness I have given 


Sang our pauses out, or oft 


All the gifts required of me — 


Bleatings took them, from the croft. 


Hope that blessed me, bliss that crowned, 




Love that left me with a wound. 


Till the pleasure, grown too strong, 


Life itself, that turned around ! 


Left me muter evermore ; 



318 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



And, the winding road being long, 
I walked out of sight, before ; 
And so, wrapt in musings fond, 
. Issued (past the wayside pond) 
On the meadow-lands beyond. 

I sat down beneath the beech 
Which leans over to the lane. 

And the far sound of your speech 
Did not promise any pain ; 
And I blessed you, full and free, 
With a smile stooped tenderly 
O'er the May-flowers on my knee. 

But the sound grew into word 
As the speakers drew more near — 

Sweet, forgive me that I heard 
What you wished me not to hear. 
Do not weep so — do not shake — 
Oh,— I heard thee. Bertha, make 
Good true answers for my sake. 

Yes, and he too ! let him stand 

In thy thoughts, untouched by blame ; 

Could he help it, if my hand 

He had claimed with hasty claim ! 
That was wrong perhaps — but then 
Such things be — and will, again ! 
Women cannot Judge for men. 

Had he seen thee, when he swore 
He would love but me alone ? 

Thou wert absent — sent before 
To our kin in Sidmouth town. 
When he saw thee, who art best, 
Past compare, and loveliest. 
He but judged thee as the rest. 

Could we blame him with grave words. 
Thou and I, dear, if we might ? 

Thy brown eyes have looks like birds 
Flying straightway to the light ; 
Mine are older. — Hush ! — look out — 
Up the street ! Is none without ? 
How the poplar swings about ! ' 

And that hour — beneath the beech — 

When I listened in a dream, 
And he said, in his deep speech, 

That he owed me all esteem — 



Each word swam in on my brain 

"With a dim, dilating pain. 

Till it burst with that last strain. 

I fell flooded with a dark. 
In the silence of a swoon. 

When I rose, still, cold and stark. 
There was night — I saw the moon : 
And the stars, each in its place. 
And the May-blooms on the grass, 
Seemed to wonder what I was. 

And I walked' as if apart 
From myself when I could stand ; 

And I pitied my own heart, 
As if I held it in my hand — 
Somewhat coldly, with a sense 
Of fulfilled benevolence. 
And a " Poor thing " negligence. 

And I answered coldly too. 
When you met me at the door ; 

And 1 only heard the dew 

Dripping from me to the floor ; 
And the flowers I bade you see. 
Were too withered for the bee — 
As my life, henceforth, for me. 

Do not weep so — dear — heart-warm ! 
It was best as it befell ! 

If I say he did me harm, 
I speak wild — I am not well. 
All his words were kind and good — 
He esteemed me ! Only blood 
Runs so faint in womanhood. 

Then I always was too grave. 
Like the saddest ballads sung. 

With that look, besides, we have 
In our faces, who die young. 
I had died, dear, all the same — 
Life's long, joyous, jostling game 
Is too loud for my meek shame. 

We are so unlike each other. 
Thou and I ; that none could guess 

We were children of one mother. 
But for mutual tenderness. 
Thou art rose-lined from the cold. 
And meant, verily, to hold 
Life's pure pleasures manifold. 



THEN. 



319 



I am pale as crocus grows 
Close beside a rose-tree's root ! 

Whosoe'er would reach the rose, 
Treads the crocus underfoot : 
I, like May-bloom on thorn-tree ; 
Thou, like merry summer bee ! 
Fit, that I be plucked for thee. 

Yet who plucks me? — no one mourns - 
I have lived my season out — 

And now die of my own thorns. 
Which I could not live without. 
Sweet, be merry ! How the light 
Comes and goes ! If it be night, 
Keep the candles in my sight. 

Are there footsteps at the door ? 
Look out quickly. Yea, or nay? 

Some one might be waiting for 
Some last word that I may say. 
Nay ? So best ! So angels would 
Stand off clear from deathly road, 
Not to cross the sight of God. 

Colder grow my hands and feet — 
When I wear the shroud I made, 

Let the folds lie straight and neat. 
And the rosemary be spread. 
That if any friend should come 
(To see thee, sweet !), all the room 
May be lifted out of gloom. 

And, dear Bertha, let me keep 
On my hand this little ring. 

Which at nights, when others sleep, 
I can still see glittering. 
Let me wear it out of sight. 
In the grave — where it will light 
All the dark up, day and night. 

On that grave, drop not a tear ! 
Else, though fathom-deep the place, 

Through the woollen shroud I wear 
I shall feel it on my face. 
Rather smile there, blessed one, 
Thinking of me in the sun — 
Or forget me — smiling on ! 

Art thou near me ? nearer ? so ! 
Kiss me close upon the eyes. 



That the earthly light may go 
Sweetly as it used to rise 
When I watched the morning gray 
Strike, betwixt the hills, the way 
He was sure to come that day. 

So — no more vain words be said ! 
The hosannas nearer roll — 

Mother, smile now on thy dead — 
I am death-strong in my soul ! 
Mystic Dove alit on cross. 
Guide the poor bird of the snows 
Through the snow-wind above loss ! 

Jesus, victim, comprehending 
Love's divine self-abnegation. 

Cleanse my love in its self-spending. 
And absorb the poor libation ! 
Wind my thread of life up higher. 
Up through angels' hands of fire 1 
I aspire while I expire ! 

Elizabeth Bakkbtt Browning. 



I GIVE thee treasures hour by hour. 
That old-time princes asked in vain, 

And pined for in their useless power. 
Or died of passion's eager pain. 

I give thee love as God gives light, 
Aside from merit, or from prayer. 

Rejoicing in its own delight. 
And fi-eer than the lavish air. 

I give thee prayers, like jewels strung 
On golden threads of hope and fear ; 

And tenderer thoughts than ever hung 
In a sad angel's pitying tear. 

As earth pours freely to the sea 
Her thousand streams of wealth iintold. 

So flows my silent life to thee. 
Glad that its very sands are gold. 

WTiat care I for thy carelessness ? 

I give from depths that overflow, 
Regardless that their power to bless 

Thy spirit cannot sound or know. 



320 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Far lingering on a distant dawn 

My triumph shines, more sweet than late ; 
When from these mortal mists withdrawn, 

Thy heart shall know me — I can wait. 

Rose Tekrt Cooke. 



Wc\t jTorsokcn iHerman. 

Come, dear children, let us away ! 

Down and away below. 
Now my brothers call from the bay ; 
Now the great winds shorewards blow ; 
Now the salt tides seaward flow ; 
Now the wild white horses play, 
Champ and chaff and toss in the spray. 

Children dear, let us away ; 
This way, this way. 

Call her once before you go. 

Call once yet, 
In a voice that she will know : 

" Margaret ! Margaret ! " 
Children's voices should be dear 
(Call once more) to a mother's ear ; 
Children's voices wild with pain. 

Surely, she will come again. 
Call her once, and come away ; 

This way, this way. 
" Mother dear, we cannot stay," 
The wild white horses foam and fret, 

Margaret! Margaret! 

Come, dear children, come away down. 

Call no more. 
One last look at the white-walled town. 
And the little gray church on the windy shore. 

Then come down. 
She will not come, though you call all day. 

Come away, come away. 

Cliildren dear, was it yesterday 

We heard the sweet bells over the bay? 

In the caverns where we lay. 

Through the surf and through the swell, 
The far-off sound of a silver bell ? 
Sand-strewn caverns cool and deep, 
Where the winds are all asleep ; 



Where the spent lights quiver and gleam ; 
Where the salt weed sways in the stream ; 
Where the sea-beasts ranged all around 
Peed in the ooze of their pasture ground ; 
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, 
Dry their mail, and bask in the brine ; 
Where great whales come sailing by. 
Sail and sail, with unshut eye. 
Round the world forever and aye? 

When did music come this way? 

Children dear, was it yesterday I 

Children dear, was it yesterday 

(Call yet once) that she went away? 

Once she sat with you and me. 

On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea. 
And the youngest sat on her knee. 

She combed its bright hair and she tended it well. 

When down swung the sound of the far-off bell ; 

She sighed, she looked up through the clear green 
sea; 

She said, " I must go, for my kinsfolk pray 

In the little gray church on the shore to-day. 

'Twill be Easter-time in the world — ah me ! 

And I lose my poor soul, merman, here with thee." 

I said, " Go up, dear heart, through the waves ; 

Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea- 
caves." 

She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay ; 
Children dear, was it yesterday ? 

Children dear, were we long alone ? 
" The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan ; 
Long prayers," I said, " in the world they say. 
Come," I said, and we rose through the surf in the 

bay. 
We went up the beach in the sandy down 
Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled 

town. 
Through the narrow-paved streets, where all was 

still. 
To the little gray church on the windy hill. 
From the church came a murmur of folk at their 

prayers. 
But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. 
We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with 

rains, 
And we gazed iip the aisle through the small leaded 

panes. 



UXCUSU. 321 


She sat by the pillar ; we saw her clear ; 


Singing, " Here came a mortal, 


" Margaret, hist ! come quick, we are here. 


But faithless was she, 


Dear heart," I said, " we are here alone. 


And alone dwell forever 


The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan." 


The kings of the sea." 


But ah, she gave me never a look, 




For her eyes were sealed to the holy book. 


But children, at midnight. 


"Loud prays the priest; shut stands the 


When soft the winds blow. 


door." 


When clear falls the moonlight. 


Come away, children, call no more. 


When spring-tides are low, 


Come away, come down, call no more. 


When sweet airs come seaward 




From heaths starred with broom, 


Down, down, down. 


And high rocks throw mildly 


Down to the depths of the sea ; 


On the blanched sands a gloom ; 


She sits at her wheel in the humming town 


Up the still, glistening beaches. 


Singing most joyfully. 


Up the creeks we will hie ; 


Hark what she sings : " Oh joy, oh joy. 


Over banks of bright seaweed 


For the humming street, and the child with its 


The ebb-tide leaves dry. 


toy, 


We will gaze from the sand-hills. 


For the priest and the bell, and the holy well, 


At the white sleeping town ; 


For the wheel where I spun. 


At the church on the hOl-side — 


And the blessed light of the sun," 


And then come back, down. 


And so she sings her fill, 


Singing, " There dwells a loved one, 


Singing most joyfully. 


But cruel is she ; 


Till the shuttle falls from her hand. 


She left lonely forever 


And the whizzing wheel stands still. 


The kings of the sea." 


She steals to the window, and looks, at the 


Matthew Arnold. 


sand; 




And over the sand at the sea ; 




And her eyes are set in a stare ; 


• €)ecKse. 


And anon there breaks a sigh, 




And anon there drops a tear, 


I TOO have suffered. Yet 1 know 


From a sorrow-clouded eye. 


She is not cold, though she seems so ; 


And a heart sorrow-laden. 


She is not cold, she is not light ; 


A long, long sigh, 


But our ignoble souls lack might. 


For the cold strange eyes of a little mermaiden 




And the gleam of her golden hair. 


She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh, 




While we for hopeless passion die ; 


Come away, away, children. 


Yet she could love, those eyes declare, 


Come, children, come down. 


Were but men nobler than they are. 


The hoarse wind blows colder ; 




Lights shine in the town. 


Eagerly once her gracious ken 


She will start from her slumber 


Was turned upon the sons of men ; 


WTien gusts shake the door ; 


But light the serious visage grew — 


She will hear the winds howling. 


She looked, and smiled, and saw them through. 


Will hear the waves roar ; 




We shall see, while above us 


Our petty souls, our strutting wits, 


The waves roar and whirl, 


Our labored puny passion-fits — 


A ceiling of amber, 


Ah, may she scorn them still, till we 


A pavement of pearl, 
23 


Scorn them as bitterly as she ! 



322 POEMS OF LOVE. 


Yet oh, that Fate would let her see 


They smile upon the world ; their ears 


One of some worthier race than we, 


To one demand alone are coy. 


One for whose sake she once might prove 


They will not give us love and tears ; 


How deeply she who scorns can love. 


They bring us light, and warmth, and joy. 


His eyes be like the starry lights ; 


It was not love that heaved thy breast. 


His voice like sounds of summer nights ; 


Fair child ! it was the bliss within. 


In all his lovely mien let pierce 


Adieu ! and say that one, at least. 


The magic of the universe ! 


Was just to what he did not win. 




Matthew Arnold. 


And she to him will reach her hand, 




And gazing in his eyes will stand, 




And know her friend, and weep for glee, 


^Ilan percg. 


And cry, Long, long I've looked for thee ! 




It was a beauteous lady richly dressed ; 


Then will she weep — with smiles, till then 


Around her neck are chains of jewels rare ; 


Coldly she mocks the sons of men. 


A velvet mantle shrouds her snowy breast. 


Till then her lovely eyes maintain 


And a young child is softly slumbering there. 


Their gay, unwavering, deep disdain. 


In her own arms, beneath that glowing sun. 


Matthbw Arnold. 


She bears him onward to the greenwood tree ; 




Is the dun heath, thou fair and thoughtless one. 




The place where an earl's son should cradled be ? 




Lullaby! 


Inbifferencc. 






Though a proud earl be father to my child, 


I MUST not say that thou wert true, 


Yet on the sward my blessed babe shall lie ; 


Yet let me say that thou wert fair ; 


Let the winds lull him with their murmurs wild. 


And they that lovely face who view, 


And toss the green boughs upward to the sky. 


They will not ask if truth be there. 


Well knows that earl how long my spirit pined. 




I loved a forester, glad, bold, and free ; 


Truth — what is truth ? Two bleeding hearts 


And had I wedded as my heart inclined. 


Wounded by men, by fortune tried, 


My child were cradled 'neath the greenwood tree. 


Outwearied with their lonely parts, 


Lullaby ! 


Vow to beat henceforth side by side. 






Slumber thcu still, my innocent, mine own. 


The world to them was stern and drear ; 


While I call back the dreams of other days. 


Their lot was but to weep and moan. 


In the deep forest I feel less alone 


Ah, let them keep their faith sincere, 


Than when those palace splendors mock my 


For neither could subsist alone ! ^ 


gaze. 




Fear not ! my arm shall bear thee safely back ; 


But souls whom some benignant breath 


I need no squire, no page with bended knee. 


Has charmed at birth from gloom and care. 


To bear my baby through the wildwood track, 


These ask no love, these plight no faith. 


Where Allan Percy used to roam with me. 


For they are happy as they are» 


Lullaby 1 


The world to them may homage make, 


Here I can sit ; and while the fresh wind blows, 


And garlands for their forehead weave ; 


Waving the ringlets of thy shining hair, 


And what the world can give, they take — 


Giving thy cheek a deeper tinge of rose. 


But they bring more than they receive. 


I can dream dreams that comfort my despair ; 



CHANGES. 



323 



I can make yisions of a difEerent home, 
Such as we hoped in other days might be ; 

There no proud earl's unwelcome footsteps come — 
There, Allan Percy, I am safe with thee ! 
Lullaby ! 

Thou art mine own — I'll bear thee where I list, 
Par from the dull, proud tower and donjon 
keep; 
From my long hair the pearl chains I'll un- 
twist, 
And with a peasant's heart sit down and weep. 
Thy glittering broidered robe, my precious one. 

Changed for a simpler covering shall be ; 
And 1 will dream thee Allan Percy's son, 
And think poor Allan guards thy sleep with me. 
Lullaby I 

Cakoline Norton. 



€l)ange0. 

Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed. 

Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not 
The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead. 

Aud then, we women cannot choose our lot. 

Much must be borne which it is hard to bear ; 
Much given away which it were sweet to 
keep. 
God help us all ! who need, indeed, His care. 
And yet, 1 know, the Shepherd loves His 
sheep. 

My little boy begins to babble now 

Upon my knee his earliest infant prayer. 

He has his father's eager eyes, I know ; 
And, they say, too, his mother's sunny hair. 

But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee, 
And I can feel his light breath come and go, 

I think of one (Heaven help and pity me !) 
Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago ; 

Who might have been , . . ah, what I dare not 
think ! 

We are all changed. God judges for us best. 
God help us do our duty, and not shrink. 

And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest. 



But blame us women not, if some appear 
Too cold at times ; and some too gay and light. 

Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear. 
Who knows the past ? and who can judge us 
right? 

Ah, were we judged by what we might have been. 
And not by what we are — too apt to fall ! 

My little child — he sleeps and smiles between 

These thoughts and me. In heaven we shall 

know all I 

Egbert Bulweb Lttton. 



£\oxtmt bane. 

I LOVED thee long and dearly, 

Florence Vane ; 
My life's bright dream and early 

Hath come again ; 
I renew in my fond vision. 

My heart's dear pain — 
My hopes, and thy derision, 

Florence Vane. 

The ruin, lone and hoary, 

The ruin old. 
Where thou didst hark my story, 

At even told — 
That spot — the hues Elysian 

Of sky and plain — 
I treasure in my vision, 

Florence Vane. 

Thou wast lovelier than the roses 

In their prime ; 
Thy voice excelled the closes 

Of sweetest rhyme ; 
Thy heart was as a river 

Without a main. 
Would I had loved thee never, 

Florence Vane ! 

But, fairest, coldest wonder ! 

Thy glorious clay 
Lieth the green sod under — 

Alas, the day ! 
And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain. 
To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Vane. 



324 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep ; 
The daisies love to dally 

Where maidens sleep. 
May their bloom, in beauty vying, 

Never wane 
Where thine earthly part is lying, 

Florence Vane ! 

Philip Pendleton Cooke. 



iHinstrers Song. 

Oh, sing unto my roundelay ! 

Oh, drop the briny tear with me I 
Dance no more at holiday ; 
Like a running river be. 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death-bed. 
All v/nder the mllow-tree. 

Black his hair as the winter night. 
White his neck as the summer snow, 

Ruddy his face as the morning light ; 
Cold he lies in the grave below. 

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note ; 

Quick in dance as thought can be : 
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout ; 

Oh, he lies by the willow-tree ! 

Hark ! the raven flaps his wing 

In the briered dell below ; 
Hark ! the death-owl loud doth sing 

To the nightmares as they go. 



Whiter is my true-love's shroud. 
Whiter than the morning sky. 
Whiter than the evening cloud. 

Here, upon my true-love's grave 
Shall the barren flowers be laid, 

Nor one holy saint to save 
AH the coldness of a maid. ' 

With my hands I'll bind the briers 
Round his holy corse to gre; 

Ouphant fairy, light your fires ; 
Here my body still shall be. 



Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, 

Drain my heart's blood all away ; 
Life and aU its good I scorn, 
Dance by night, or feast by day. 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death-bed. 
All under the willow-tree. 

Water-witches, crowned with reytes, 

Bear me to your lethal tide. 
1 die ! I come ! my true-love waits. 

Thus the damsel spake, and died. 

Thomas Chatterton. 



tDl)cn tl)c ®rass sl)aU Olotjcr ille. 

When the grass shaU cover me 
Head to foot where I am lying, 
When not any wind that blows. 
Summer bloom or winter snows, 
Shall awake me to your sighing : 
Close above me as you pass. 
You will say, " How kind she was ; " 
You will say, " How true she was," 
When the grass grows over me. 

When the grass shall cover me, 
Holden close to earth's warm bosom, 
While I laugh, or weep, or sing, 
Nevermore for anything. 
You wiU find in blade and blossom 
Sweet small voices, odorous. 
Tender pleaders of my cause, 
That shall speak me as I was, 
When the grass grows over me. 

When the grass shall cover me ! 

Ah ! beloved, in my sorrow 
Very patient can I wait. 
Knowing that, or soon or late. 

There will dawn a clearer morrow, 
When your heart will moan, " Alas, 
Now I know how true she was ; 
Now I know how dear she was," 

When the grass grows over me. 

Anonymous. 



ANNABEL LEE. 



325 



It was many and many a year ago, 

In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden lived, whom you may know 

By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 

Than to love, and be loved by me. 

I was a chQd and she was a child. 

In this kingdom by the sea ; 
But we loved with a love that was more than love, 

I and my Annabel Lee — 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
So that her high-born kinsmen came, 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre. 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not so happy in heaven. 

Went envying her and me. 
Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know) 

In this kingdom by the sea. 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 

Of those who were older than we, * 

Of many far wiser than we ; 
And neither the angels in heaven above. 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 

For the moon never beams without bringing me 
dreams 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, 
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the side 
Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride. 

In her sepulchre there by the sea. 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

Edsab Allan Poe. 



(EtJclan f ope. 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead I 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower. 
Beginning to die, too, in the glass. 

Little has yet been changed, I think ; 
The shutters are shut — no light may pass, 

Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name — 
It was not her time to love ; beside, 

Her life had many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares ; 

And now was quiet, now astir — 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares. 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope ? 

What ! your soul was pure and true ; 
The good stars met in your horoscope. 

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew ; 
And just because I was thrice as old, 

And eur paths in the world diverged so 
wide, 
Each was naught to each, must I be told? 

We were fellow-mortals — naught beside? 

No, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make. 
And creates the love to reward the love ; 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 
Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet, 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few ; 
Much is to learn and much to forget 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 

But the time will come — at last it will — 

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall 
say. 
In the lower earth — in the years long stUl — 

That body and soul so gay ? 
Why your hair was amber I shall divine, 

And your mouth of your own geranium's 
red, 
And what you would do with me, in fine. 

In the new life come in the old one's stead. 



326 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



I have lived, I shall say, so much since then. 

Given up myself so many times. 
Gained me the gains of various men, 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ; 
Yet one thing — one — in my soul's full scope, 

Either I missed or itself missed me — 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 

What is the issue ? let us see ! 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ; 

My heart seemed full as it could hold — 
There was place and to spare for the frank young 
smile, 
And the red young mouth, and the hair's young 
gold. 
So, hush ! I will give you this leaf to keep ; 
See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. 
There, that is our secret ! go to sleep ; 

You will wake, and remember, and understand. 
Robert Browntng. 



Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers. 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There Simmer first unfald her robes 

And there she langest tarry ! 
For there I took the last fareweel 

0' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk ! 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom ! 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasped her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And pledging aft to meet again, , 

We tore ourselves asunder ; 
But, oh ! fell death's untimely frost. 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green 's the sod, and cauld 's the clay. 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 



Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mould'ring now in silent dust 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly! 
But stiU within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary, 

Robert Burns. 



Q\\t is far from tl)e iDanir. 

She is far from the land where her young hero 
sleeps, 

And lovers are round her sighing ; 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps. 

For her heart in his grave is lying. 

She sings the wild songs of her dear native 
plains. 

Every note which he loved awaking ; 
Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains, 

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking. 

He had lived for his love, for his country he 
died. 
They were all that to life had entwined 
him; 
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried. 
Nor long will his love stay behind him. 

Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams 
rest 
When they promise a glorious morrow ; 
They '11 shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the 
west. 
From her own loved island of sorrow. 

Thomas Moore. 



Song. 

" LADY, thy lover is dead," they cried ; 

" He is dead, but hath slain the foe ; 
He hath left his name to be magnified 

In a song of wonder and woe." 



AUX IT ALIENS. 



327 



" Alas I 1 am well repaid," said she, 
" With a pain that stings like joy ; 

For 1 feared, from his tenderness to me, 
That he was but a feeble boy. 

" Now I shall hold my head on high, 

The queen among my kind. 
If ye hear a sound, 'tis only a sigh 

For a glory left behind." 

George MacDonald. 



QTo ittarg in j^caocn. 

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou \isherest in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary ! dear, departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast 1 

That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met. 

To live one day of parting love ? 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past — 
Thy image at our last embrace ! 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, green ; 
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar 

Twined amorous round the raptured scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest. 

The birds sang love on every spray. 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes. 

And fondly broods with miser care ; 
Time but th' impression deeper makes. 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary ! dear, departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest f 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast f 

Robert Burns. 



%vi% Italians. 

At Paris it was, at the opera there ; 

And she looked like a queen in a book that 
night. 
With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, 

And the brooch on her breast so bright. 

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, 
The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore ; 

And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note. 
The souls in purgatory. 

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow ; 
And who was not thrilled in the strangest 
way. 
As we heard him sing, while the gas burned 
low, 
" Non ti scordar di me 9 " 

The Emperor there, in his box of state. 
Looked grave ; as if he had just then seen 

The red flag wave from the city gate. 
Where his eagles in bronze had been. 

The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye : 
You 'd have said that her fancy had gone back 
again. 

For one moment, under the old blue sky. 
To the old glad life in Spain. 

Well ! there in our front-row box we sat. 
Together, my bride betrothed and I ; 

My gaze was flxed on my opera hat. 
And hers on the stage hard by. 

And both were silent, and both were sad ; 

Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm. 
With that regal, indolent air she had ; 

So confident of her charm ! 

I have not a doubt she was thinking then 
Of her former lord, good soul that he was. 

Who died the richest and roundest of men. 
The Marquis of Carabas. 

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven. 
Through a needle's eye he had not to pass ; 

I wish him well, for the jointure given 
To my lady of Carabas. 



328 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, 
As I had not been thinking of aught for years ; 

Till over my eyes there began to move 
Something that felt like tears. 

I thought of the dress that she wore last time. 
When we stood, 'neath the cypress-trees together, 

In that lost land, in that soft clime. 
In the crimson evening weather ; 

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot) ; 

And her warm white neck in its golden chain ; 
And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot. 

And falling loose again ; 

And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast ; 

(Oh the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower !) 
And the one bird singing alone to his nest ; 

And the one star over the tower. 

I thought of our little quarrels and strife, 
And the letter that brought me back my ring ; 

And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, 
Such a very little thing ! 

For I thought of her grave below the hill, 
Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over ; 

And I thought, " Were she only living still. 
How I could forgive her and love her ! " 

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour. 
And of how, after all, old things are best. 

That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower 
Which she used to wear in her breast. 

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet. 
It made me creep, and it made me cold ! 

Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet 
Where a mummy is half unrolled. 

And I turned, and looked : she was sitting there, 
In a dim box over the stage ; and drest 

In that muslin dress, with that full, soft hair, 
And that jasmine in her breast ! 

1 was here, and she was there ; 

And the glittering horseshoe curved between : 
From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair 

And her sumptuous, scornful mien. 



To my early love, with her eyes downcast, 
And over her primrose face the shade, 

(In short, from the future back to the past) 
There was but a step to be made. 

To my early love from my future bride 
One moment I looked. Then I stole to the 
door, 

I traversed the passage ; and down at her side 
I was sitting, a moment more. 

My thinking of her, or the music's strain, 
Or something which never will be exprest, 

Had brought her back from the grave again. 
With the jasmine in her breast. 

She is not dead, and she is not wed ! 

But she loves me now, and she loved me then ! 
And the very first word that her sweet lips said. 

My heart grew youthful again. 

The Marchioness there, of Carabas, 

She is wealthy, and young, and handsome stOl ; 
And but for her . . . well, we'll let that pass ; 

She may marry whomever she will. 

But I will marry my own first love. 

With her primrose face, for old things are best ; 
And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above 

The brooch in my lady's breast. 

The world is filled with folly and sin. 
And love must cling where it can, I say : 

For beauty is easy enough to win ; 
But one is n't loved every day. 

And I think, in the lives of most women and 
men. 
There's a moment when all would go smooth and 
even. 
If only the dead could find out when 
To come back and be forgiven. 

But oh the smell of that jasmine flower ! 

And oh that music ! and oh the way 
That voice rang out from the donjon tower, 
Non ti scordar di me, 
Non ti scordar di me ! 

Robert, Lokd Lytton. 



LAOJDAMJA. 



329 



^00 Cote. 

" Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu." 

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, 

In the old likeness that I knew, 
I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, 

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

Never a scornful word should grieve ye, 
I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do ; 

Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

Oh, to call back the days that are not ! 

My eyes were blinded, your words were few : 
Do you know the truth now, up in heaven, 

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ? 

I never was worthy of you, Douglas ; 

Not half worthy the like of you : 
Now all men beside seem to me like shadows — 

I love you, Douglas, tender and true. 

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, 
Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew ; 

As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ! 

Dinah Mabia Mulock Craik. 



Caolroinia. 

" With sacrifice, before the rising morn, 
Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired ; 

And from th' infernal gods, 'mid shades forlorn 
Of night, my slaughtered lord have I required ; 

Celestial pity I again implore ; 

Restore him to my sight — great Jove, restore ! " 

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 
"With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts her 
hands ; 
While, like the sun emerging from a cloud. 
Her countenance brightens and her eye ex- 
pands ; 
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows ; 
And she expects the issue in repose. 



Oh terror! what hath she perceived ? — oh joy ! 

What doth she look on? — whom doth she be- 
hold? 
Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy ? 

His vital presence ? his corporeal mould ? 
It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis he ! 
And a god leads him — winged Mercury ! 

Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with his 
wand 
That calms aU fear : " Such grace hath crowned 
thy prayer, 
Laodamia ! that at Jove's command 

Thy husband walks the paths of upper air ; 
He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space ; 
Accept the gift, behold him face to face ! " 

Forth sprang the impassioned queen her lord to 
clasp ; 

Again that consummation she essayed ; 
But unsubstantial form eludes her grasp 

As often as that eager grasp was made. 
The phantom parts — but parts to reiinite. 
And reassume his place before her sight. 

" Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! 

Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice : 
This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne ! 

Speak ! and the floor thou tread'st on will re- 
joice. 
Not to appal me have the gods bestowed 
This precious boon, and blest a sad abode." 

" Great Jove, Laodamia, doth not leave 
His gifts imperfect : spectre though I be, 

I am not sent to scare thee or deceive ; 
But in reward of thy fidelity. 

And something also did my worth obtain ; 

For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. 

" Thou know'st, the Delphic oracle foretold 
That the first Greek who touched the Trojan 
strand 
Should die; but me the threat could not with- 
hold— 
A generous cause a victim did demand ; 
And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain ; 
A self-devoted chief, by Hector slain." 



330 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



" Supreme of heroes ! bravest, noblest, best ! 

Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, 
Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest 

By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ; 
Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — here thou 

art — 
A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 

" But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 
Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ; 

And he whose power restores thee hath decreed 
Thou shouldst elude the malice of the grave ; 

Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 

As when their breath enriched Thessalian air. 

" No spectre greets me,— no vain shadow this ; 

Come, blooming hero, place thee by my side ! 
Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss 

To me, this day a second time thy bride ! " 
Jove frowned in heaven; the conscious Parcee 

threw 
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 

" This visage tells thee that my doom is past ; 

Nor should the change be mourned, even if the 
joys 
Of sense were able to return as fast 

And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys 
Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains ; 
Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pains. 

" Be taught, faithful consort, to control 
Rebellious passion : for the gods approve 

The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul ; 
A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 

Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn 

When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — " 

" Ah, wherefore ? Did not Hercules by force 
Wrest from the guardian monster of the tomb 

Alcestis, a reanimated corse, 

Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom ? 

Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years. 

And ^son stood a youth 'mid youthful peers. 

" The gods to us are merciful, and they 
Yet further may relent ; for mightier far 

Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway 
Of magic potent over sun and star. 



Is love, though oft to agony distrest. 
And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's 
breast. 

"But if thou goest, I follow — " "Peace!" he 
said ; 
She looked upon him and was calmed and 
cheered ; 
The ghastly color from his lips had fled ; 

In his deportment, shape, and mien appeared 
Elysian beauty, melancholy grace. 
Brought from a pensive, though a happy place. 

He spake of love, such love as spirits feel 
In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; 

No fears to beat away — no strife to heal — 
The past unsighed for, and the future sure ; 

Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 

Revived, with finer harmony pursued ; 

Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there 
In happier beauty ; more pellucid streams, 

An ampler ether, a diviner air. 

And fields invested with purpureal gleams ; 

Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest 
day 

Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 

Yet there the soul shall enter which hath earned 

That privilege by virtue. — " 111," said he, 
" The end of man's existence I discerned, 

Who fi'om ignoble games and revelry 
Could draw, when we had parted, vain de- 
light. 
While tears were thy best pastime, day and 
night ; 

" And while my youthful peers before my eyes 
(Each hero following his peculiar bent) 

Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 
By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent, 

Chieftains and kings in council were detained, 

What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. 

" The wished - for wind was given ; I then re- 
volved 

The oracle, upon the silent sea ; 
And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 

That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 



THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES. 



331 



The foremost prow in pressing to the strand — 
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. 

" Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter, was the pang 
When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife ! 

On thee too fondly did my memory hang, 
And on the joys we shared in mortal life — 

The paths which we had trod — these fountains, 
flowers — 

My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. 

" But should suspense permit the foe to cry, 
' Behold they tremble ! — haughty their array, 

Yet of their number no one dares to die ? ' 
In soul I swept th' indignity away. 

Old fraUties then recurred ; but lofty thought. 

In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 

" And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak 
In reason, in self-government too slow ; 

I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 
Our blest reunion in the shades below. 

The invisible world with thee hath sympathized ; 

Be thy affections raised and solemnized. 

" Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend. 
Seeking a higher object. Love was given. 

Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end ; 
For this the psission to excess was driven. 

That self might be annulled — her bondage prove 

The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." 

Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes reappears ! 

Round the dear shade she would have clung, — 

'tis vain ; 
The hours are past, — too brief had they been 

years ; 
And him no mortal effort can detain. 
Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly 

day, 
He through the portal takes his silent way. 
And on the palace floor a lifeless corse she lay. 

Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved, 
She perished ; and, as for wilful crime. 

By the just gods, whom no weak pity moved, 
Was doomed to wear out her appointed time, 

Apart from happy ghosts, that gather flowers 

Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. 



— Yet tears to human suffering are due ; 
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown 
Are mourned by man, and not by man alone, 
As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 

A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 
From out the tomb of him for whom she 

died; 
And ever, when such stature they had gained 
That Ilium's walls were subject to their 
view, 
The trees' tall summits withered at the sight 
A constant interchange of growth and blight ! 
William Wordsworth. 



^\)ii faixsBX seizing in iHortal QEges. 

To make my lady's obsequies 

My love a minster wrought, 
And, in the chantry, service there 

Was sung by doleful thought ; 
The tapers were of burning sighs, 

That light and odor gave ; 
And sorrows, painted o'er with tears, 

Enlumined her grave ; 
And round about, in quaintest guise, 
Was carved : " Within this tomb there lies 
The fairest thing in mortal eyes." 

Above her lieth spread a tomb 

Of gold and sapphires blue : 
The gold doth show her blessedness, 

The sapphires mark her true ; 
For blessedness and truth in her 

Were livelily portrayed. 
When gracious God with both His hands 

Her goodly substance made. 
He framed her in such wondrous wise, 
She was, to speak without disguise, 
The fairest thing in mortal eyes. 

No more, no more ! my heart doth faint 

When I the life recall 
Of her, who lived so free from taint, 

So virtuous deemed by all — 
That in herself was so complete, 

I think that she was ta'en 




332 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



By God to deck His paradise, 

And with His saints to reign ; 
Whom, while on earth, each one did prize, 
The fairest thing in mortal eyes. 

But naught our tears avail, or cries ; 

All soon or late in death shall sleep ; 

Nor living wight long time may keep 

The fairest thing in mortal eyes. 

Charles, Duke op Orubans. (French.) 
Translation of Henbt Francis Cart. 



®l]e JBnrial of Cooe. 

Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day, 
Sat where a river rolled away. 
With calm, sad brows and raven hair ; 
And one was pale and both were fair. 

Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers unblown ; 
Bring forest blooms of name unknown ; 
Bring budding sprays from wood and wild. 
To strew the bier of Love, the child. 

Close softly, fondly, while ye weep. 
His eyes, that death may seem like sleep ; 
And fold his hands in sign of rest. 
His waxen hands, across his breast. 

And make his grave where violets hide, 
Where star-flowers strew the rivulet's side. 
And blue-birds, in the misty spring, 
Of cloudless skies and summer sing. 

Place near him, as ye lay him low. 
His idle shafts, his loosened bow. 
The silken fillet that around 
His waggish eyes in sport he wound. 

But we shaU mourn him long, and miss 

His ready smile, his ready kiss. 

The patter of his little feet. 

Sweet frowns and stammered phrases sweet ; 

And graver looks, serene and high, 
A light of heaven in that young eye : 
All these shall haunt us till the heart 
Shall ache and ache, and tears will start. 



The bow, the band, shall fall to dust ; 
The shining arrows waste with rust ; 
And all of Love that earth can claim, 
Be but a memory and a name. 

Not thus his nobler part shall dwell, 
A prisoner in this narrow cell ; 
But he whom now we hide from men 
In the dark ground, shall live again — 

Shall break these clods, a form of light. 
With nobler mien and purer sight. 
And in th' eternal glory stand. 
Highest and nearest God's right hand. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



Sonnet. 

The doubt which ye misdeem, fair love, is vain. 
That fondly fear to lose your liberty ; 

When, losing one, two liberties ye gain. 
And make him bound that bondage erst did 

fly. 

Sweet be the bands the which true love doth 
tye 
Without constraint, or dread of any ill : 
The gentle bird feels no captivity 

Within her cage ; but sings and feeds her fill ; 
There pride dare not approach, nor discord spill 
The league 'twixt them that loyal love hath 
bound ; 
But simple truth, and mutual good-will. 

Seeks, with sweet peace, to salve each other's 
wound ; 
There faith doth fearless dwell in brazen tower. 
And spotless pleasure builds her sacred bower. 

EDatciro Spenser. 



%av\t not. 

Love not, love not ! ye hapless sons of clay ! 
Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow- 
ers — 
Things that are made to fade and fall away 
Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours. 
Love not ! 



WINIFBEDA. 333 


Love not ! the thing ye love may change ; 


How should I love the pretty creatures. 


The rosy lip may cease to smile on you, 


While 'round my knees they fondly clung. 


The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange, 


To see them look their mother's features, 


The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. 


To hear them lisp their mother's tongue ! 


Love not ! 






And when with envy, time, transported. 


Love not! the thing you love may die — 


Shall think to rob us of our joys. 


May perish from the gay and gladsome earth ; 


You'll in your girls again be courted. 


The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky. 


And I'll go wooing in my boys. 


Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth. 


Anonymous. 


Love not I 




Love not ! oh warning vainly said 


Song. 


In present hours as in years gone by ; 


Love flings a halo round the dear ones' head. 


Gathee ye rose-buds as ye may, 


Faultless, immortal, till they change or die. 


Old Time is still a-flying ; 


Love not ! 


And this same flower that smiles to-day 


Caroline Norton. 


To-morrow will be dying. 




The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun. 


toinifu&a. 


The higher he's a-getting. 


The sooner will his race be run. 


Away ! let naught to love displeasing. 


And nearer he's to setting. 


My Winifreda, move your care ; 
Let naught delay the heavenly blessing, 
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 




The age is best which is the first. 

When youth and blood are warmer ; 
But being spent, the worse and worst 


What though no grants of royal donors 


Time still succeed the former. 


With pompous titles grace our blood ; 




We'll shine in more substantial honors. 


Then be not coy, but use your time. 


And to be noble we'll be good. 


And while ye may, go marry; 




For having lost but once your prime. 


Our name, while virtue thus we tender, 


You may for ever tariy. 


Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke : 


EOBERT HERRICK. 


And all the great ones, they shall wonder 




How they respect such little folk. 




What though from fortune's lavish bounty 


^\\z febretD toebbing. 


No mighty treasures we possess ; 


BRIDAL SONG. 


We'll find within our pittance plenty, 




And be content without excess. 


To the sound of timbrels sweet 




Moving slow our solemn feet, 


Still shall each kind returning season 


We have borne thee on the road 


Sufficient for our wishes give ; 


To the virgin's blest abode ; 


For we will live a life of reason. 


With thy yellow torches gleaming. 


And that 's the only life to live. 


And thy scarlet mantle streaming, 




And the canopy above 


Through youth and age in love excelling, 


Swaying as we slowly move. 


We'll hand in hand together tread ; 




Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, 


Thou hast left the joyous feast. 


And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. 


And the mirth and wine have ceased ; 



334 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



And now we set thee down before 
The jealously-unclosing door, 
That the favored youth admits 
Where the veiled virgin sits 
In the bliss of maiden fear, 
Waiting our soft tread to hear, 
And the music's brisker din 
At the bridegroom's entering in, 
Entering in, a welcome guest, 
To the chamber of his rest. 

CHORUS OF MAIDENS. 

Now the jocund song is thine. 

Bride of David's kingly line ! 

How thy dove-like bosom trembleth. 

And thy shrouded eye resembleth 

Violets, when the dews of eve 

A moist and tremulous glitter leave 

On the bashful, sealed lid ! 

Close within the bride-veil hid. 

Motionless thou sit'st and mute. 

Save that, at the soft salute 

Of each entering maiden friend. 

Thou dost rise and softly bend. 

Hark ! a brisker, merrier glee ! 
The door unfolds — 'tis he ! 'tis he ! 
Thus we lift our lamps to meet him I 
Thus we touch our lutes to greet him ! 
Thou shalt give a fonder meeting. 
Thou shalt give a tenderer greeting ! 

Henry Habt Milman. 



®pit{)alatnion. 

Ye learned sisters, which have oftentimes 

Beene to the ayding others to adorne, 

Whom ye thought worthy of your graceful rymes, 

That even the greatest did not greatly scorne 

To heare theyr names sung in your simple lays. 

But joyed in theyr praise ; 

And when ye list your own mishaps to mourne. 

Which death, or love, or fortune's wreck did 

rayse. 
Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne. 
And teach the woods and waters to lament 
Your doleful dreriment ; 



Now lay those sorrowf uU complaints aside ; 

And, having all your heads with girlands crowned, 

Helpe me mine owne love's prayses to resound, 

Ne let the same of any be envide. 

So Orpheus did for his owne bride ; 

So I unto my selfe alone will sing ; 

The woods shal to me answer, and my echo ring. 

Early, before the world's light-giving lampe 

His golden beame upon the hils doth spred, 

Having disperst the night's uncheerful dampe. 

Doe ye awake ; and with fresh lustyhed 

Go to the bowre of my beloved love, 

My truest turtle dove ; 

Bid her awake ; for Hymen is awake, 

And long since ready forth his maske to move. 

With his bright torch that flames with many a 

flake, 
And many a bachelor to waite on him. 
In theyr fresh garments trim. 
Bid her awake therefore, and soone her dight ; 
For loe ! the wished day is come at last, 
That shal, for aU the paynes and sorrowes past, 
Pay to her usury of long delight ! 
And, whylest she doth her dight. 
Doe ye to her of joy and solace sing, 
That all the woods may answer, and your echo 

ring. 

Bring with you all the nymphs that you can heare. 
Both of the rivers and the forests greene. 
And of the sea that neighbours to her neare ; 
All with gay girlands goodly wel beseene. 
And let them also with them bring in hand 
Another gay girland. 
For my fayre love, of lillyes and of roses. 
Bound, true-love-wise, with a blue silk riband. 
And let them make great store of bridale posies ; 
And let them eke bring store of other flowers. 
To deck the bridale bowers. 
And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread. 
For feare the stones her tender foot should wrong, 
Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along. 
And diapred lyke the discolored mead. 
Which done, doe at her chamber dore awayt. 
For she will waken strayt ; 
The whiles do ye this song unto her sing. 
The woods shal to you answer, and your echo 
ring. 



I 



EPITHALAMION. 



335 



Ye nymphs of Mulla, which with carefull heed 

The silver-scaly trouts do tend full well, 

And greedy pikes which used therein to feed, 

(Those trouts and pikes all others doe excell ;) 

And ye, likewise, which keepe the rushy lake, 

Where none do iishes take — 

Bynd up the locks the which hang scattered 

light. 
And in his waters, which your mirror make, 
Behold your faces as the christall bright. 
That when you come whereas my love doth lie 
No blemish she may spie. 

And eke, ye iightfoot mayds, which keepe the dore 
That on the hoary mountayne used to towre — 
And the wylde wolves, which seeke them to de- 

Toure, 
With your Steele darts doe chace from coming 

neare — 
Be also present here, 

To helpe to decke her, and to helpe to sing, 
That all the woods may answer, and your echo 

ring. 

Wake now, my love, awake ; for it is time : 
The rosy morne long since left Tithon's bed. 
All ready to her silver coache to clyme ; 
And Phoebus 'gins to shew his glorious hed. 
Hark ! how the cheerfuU. birds do chaunt theyr 

laies. 
And Carroll of love's praise ! 
The merry larke his mattins sings aloft ; 
The thrush replyes ; the mavis descant playes ; 
The ouzell shrills ; the ruddock warbles soft : 
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent, 
To this daye's merriment. 

Ah ! my deare love, why do ye sleepe thus long ? 
When meeter were that ye should now awake, 
T' awayt the comming of your Joyous make ; 
And hearken to the birds' love-learned song. 
The dewy leaves among ! 
For they of Joy and pleasance to you sing. 
That all the woods them answer, and theyr echo 

ring. 

My love is now awake out of her dreame ; 

And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmed were 

With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly 

beame, 
More bright than Hesperus his head doth reare. 



Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight, 
Helpe quickly her to dight ! 
But fii-st come, ye fayi-e houres, which were begot 
In Jove's sweet paradise of day and night ; 
Which do the seasons of the year allot ; 
And aU that ever in this world is fayre, 
Do make and still repayre ! 

And ye, three handraayds of the Cyprian queene. 
The which do still adorn her beauteous pride, 
Helpe to adorn my beautifullest bride ; 
And, as ye her array, still throw between 
Some graces to be scene ; 
And, as ye used to Venus, to her sing. 
The whUes the woods shal answer, and your echo 
ring. 

Now is my love all ready forth to come — 

Let all the virgins, therefore, well awayt ; 

And ye fresh boys, that tend upon her groome, 

Prepare yourselves ; for he is comming strayt. 

Set all your things in seemely-good array, 

Fit for so Joyf ull day — 

The Joyfulest day that ever sun did see. 

Fail- sun ! shew forth thy favourable ray. 

And let thy lif ull heat not fervent be, 

For feare of burning her sunshyny face, 

Her beauty to disgrace. 

fayrest Phoebus ! father of the Muse ! 

If ever I did honour thee aright. 

Or sing the thing that mote thy minde delight. 

Do not thy servant's simple boone refuse ; 

But let this day, let this one day, be mine ; 

Let aU the rest be thine. 

Then I thy soverayne prayeses loud wUl sing. 

That all the woods shal answer, and theyi- echo 



Harke ! how the minstrels 'gin to shrUl aloud 

Their merry musick that resounds from far — 

The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling croud 

That well agree withouten breach or Jar. 

But most of all the damzels do delite 

When they their tymbrels smyte. 

And thereunto do daunce and carrol sweet. 

That all the sences they do ravish quite ; 

The whiles the boyes run up and doune the 

street. 
Crying aloud with strong, confused noyce, 
As if it were one voyce : 



336 



POEMS OF LOVK 



Hymen, lo Hymen, Hymen ! they do shout. 

That even to the heavens theyr shouting shrill 

Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill ; 

To which the people standing all about. 

As in approvance, do thereto applaud, 

And loud advaunce her laud ; 

And evermore they Hymen, Hymen ! sing, 

That all the woods them answer, and theyr echo ring. 

Loe ! where she comes along with portly pace, 

Lyke Phoebe, from her chamber of the east. 

Arysing forth to run her mighty race. 

Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best. 

So well it her beseems that ye would weene 

Some angell she had beene. 

Her long, loose, yellow locks lyke golden wyre, 

Sprinkled with perle, and perling flowres atweene. 

Do lyke a golden mantle her attyre ; 

And, being crowned with a girland greene. 

Seem lyke some mayden queene. 

Her modest eyes abashed to behold 

So many gazers as on her do stare. 

Upon the lowly ground affixed are ; 

Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold, 

But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud, 

So farre from being proud. 

Nathlesse do ye still loud her prayses sing. 

That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. 

Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see 

So f ayre a creature in your towne before ? 

So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she, 

Adornd with beauty's grace and vertue's store f 

Her goodly eyes lyke saphyres shining bright ; 

Her forehead ivory white ; 

Her cheekes lyke apples which the sun hath 

rudded ; 
Her lips lyke cherries charming men to byte ; 
Her brest lyke to a bowl of cream uncrudded ; 
Her paps lyke lyllies budded ; 
Her snowie necke lyke to a marble towre ; 
And all her body like a pallace fayre. 
Ascending up with many a stately stayre. 
To honour's seat and chastity's sweet bowre. 
Why stand ye still, ye virgins, in amaze 
Upon her so to gaze. 
Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing, 
To which the woods did answer, and your echo 

ring? 



But if ye saw that which no eyes can see. 
The inward beauty of her lively spright, 
Garnisht with heavenly gifts of high degree, 
Much more then would ye wonder at that 

sight, 
And stand astonisht, lyke to those which red 
Medusae's mazeful hed. 

There dwells sweet love, and constant chastity, 
Unspotted fayth, and comely womanhood. 
Regard of honour, and mild modesty ; 
There vertue raynes as queene in royal throne, 
And giveth lawes alone. 
The which the base affections do obey. 
And yeeld theyr services unto her will ; 
Ne thought of things uncomely ever may 
Thereto approach, to tempt her mind to ill. 
Had ye once scene these her celestial treasures, 
And unrevealed pleasures. 
Then would ye wonder, and her prayses sing. 
That all the woods should answer, and your echo 

ring. 

Open the temple gates unto my love ! 
Open them wide, that she may enter in ! 
And all the postes adome as doth behove, 
And all the pillars deck with girlands trim. 
For to receyve this saynt with honour dew, 
That commeth in to you ! 
With trembling steps and humble reverence 
She commeth in before th' Almighty's view. 
Of her, ye virgins, leame obedience, — 
When so ye come into those holy places, 
To humble your proud faces. 
Bring her up to th' high altar, that she may 
The sacred ceremonies there partake, 
The which do endlesse matrimony make ; 
And let the roaring organs loudly play 
The praises of the Lord in lively notes ; 
The whiles, with hollow throates. 
The choristers the joyous antheme sing. 
That all the woods may answer, and their echo 
ring. 

Behold ! whiles she before the altar stands. 
Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes. 
And blesseth her with his two happy hands. 
How the red roses flush up in her cheekes. 
And the pure snow with goodly vermill stajme, 
Like crimson dyde in grayne : 



I 



EPITHALAMION. 



337 



That even the angels, which continually 
About the sacred altar do remaine, 
Forget their service and about her fly, 
Ofte peeping in her face, that seems more fayre 
The more they on it stare. 
But her sad eyes, stUl fastened on the ground. 
Are governed with goodly modesty, 
That suilers not one look to glaunce awry 
Which may let in a little thought unsound. 
Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand. 
The pledge of all our band ! 
Sing, ye sweet angels, alleluya sing, 
That all the woods may answer, and your echo 
ring ! 

Now all is done : bring home the bride again — 
Bring home the triumph of our victory ; 
Bring home with you the glory of her gaine — 
With joyance bring her and with jollity. 
Never had man more joyfull day than this, 
Whom heaven would heape with bliss. 
Make feast therefore now all this live-long day ; 
This day for ever to me holy is. 
Poure out the wine without restraint or stay — 
Poure not by cups, but by the belly-full — 
Poure out to all that vnill ! 
And sprinkle all the postes and walls with wine. 
That they may sweat and drunken be withall. 
Crovrae ye god Bacchus with a coronall. 
And Hymen also crowne with wreaths of vine ; 
And let the Graces daunce unto the rest. 
For they can do it best ; 
The whiles the maydens do theyr carrol sing. 
To which the woods shall answer, and theyr echo 
ring. 

Ring ye the bells, ye yong men of the towne. 

And leave your wonted labours for this day : 

This day is holy — do ye write it downe. 

That ye for ever it remember may, — 

This day the sun is in his chiefest hight, 

With Barnaby the bright. 

From whence declining daily by degrees. 

He somewhat loseth of his heat and light. 

When once the Crab behind his back he sees 

But for this time it ill-ordained was 

To choose the longest day in all the yeare. 

And shortest night, when longest fitter weare ; 

Yet never day so long but late would passe. 

24 



Ring ye the bells, to make it weare away, 
And bonfires make all day : 
And daunce about them, and about them sing 
That all the woods may answer, and your echo 
ring. 

Ah ! when will this long weary day have end, 

And lende me leave to come unto my love % 

How slowly do the houres theyr numbers spend ! 

How slowly does sad Time his feathers move ! 

Hast thee, fayrest planet, to thy home, 

Within the westerne foame ; 

Thy tyred steedes long since have need of rest. 

Long though it be, at last I see it gloome, 

And the bright evening-star with golden crest 

Appeare out of the east. 

Fayre child of beauty ! glorious lamp of love ! 

That all the host of heaven in rankes dost lead. 

And guidest lovers through the night's sad dread. 

How cherefuUy thou lookest from above. 

And seem'st to laugh atweene thy twinkling light. 

As joying in the sight 

Of these glad many, which for joy do sing. 

That all the woods them answer, and their echo 



Now cease, ye damsels, your delights forepast ; 
Enough it is that all the day was youres. 
Now day is done, and night is nighing fast ; 
Now bring the bryde into the brydall bowres. 
The night is come, now soon her disarray, 
And in her bed her lay ; 
Lay her in lyllies and in violets ; 
And silken curtains over her display. 
And odourd sheets, and arras coverlets. 
Behold how goodly my faire love does lye, 
In proud humility 1 

Like unto Maia, when as Jove her took 
In Tempe, lying on the flowry grass, 
'Twixt sleepe and wake, after she weary was, 
With bathing in the Acidalian brooke. 
Now it is night — ye damsels may be gone. 
And leave my love alone ; 
And leave likewise your former lay to sing : 
The woods no more shall answer, nor your echo 
ring. 

Now welcome, night ! thou night so long expected. 
That long dale's labour doest at last defray. 



338 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



And all my cares which cruell love collected, 

Hast summd in one, and cancelled for aye ! 

Spread thy broad wing over my love and me. 

That no man may us see ; 

And in thy sable mantle us enwrap, 

Prom feare of perill and foule horror free. 

Let no false treason seeke us to entrap. 

Nor any dread disquiet once annoy 

The safety of our joy ; 

But let the night be calme, and quietsome, 

"Without tempestuous storms or sad afray : 

Lyke as when Jove with fayre Alcmena lay, 

When he begot the great Tirynthian groome ; 

Or lyke as when he with thy selfe did lye, 

And begot Majesty. 

And let the mayds and yongmen cease to sing ; 

Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr echo ring. 

Let no lamenting cryes, nor doleful teares. 
Be heard all night within, nor yet without ; 
Ne let false whispers, breeding hidden feares, 
Breake gentle sleepe with misconceived dout. 
Let no deluding dreames, nor dreadful sights. 
Make sudden, sad affrights ; 

Ne let house-f yres, nor lightning's helples harmes, 
Ne let the pouke, nor other evill sprights, 
Ne let mischievous witches with their charmes, 
Ne let hob-goblins, names whose sense we see not. 
Pray us with things that be not : 
Let not the shriech-owle, nor the storke, be heard ; 
Nor the night raven, that still deadly yells ; 
Nor damned ghosts, eald up with mighty spells ; 
Nor griesly vultures make us once affeard. 
Ne let th' unpleasant quire of frogs still croking 
Make us to wish theyr choking. 
Let none of these theyr dreary accents sing ; 
Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr echo 
ring. 

But let stil silence true night-watches kfeepe, . 
That sacred peace may in assurance rayne. 
And tymely sleep, when it is tyme to sleepe. 
May poure his limbs forth on your pleasant playne ; 
The whiles an hundred little winged Loves, 
Like divers-fethered doves. 
Shall fly and flutter round about the bed, 
And in the secret darke, that none reproves. 
Their prety stealthes shall worke, and snares shall 
spread 



To filch away sweet snatches of delight, 
Conceald through covert night. 
Ye sonnes of Venus play your sports at will I 
Por greedy pleasure, carelesse of your toyes, 
Thinks more upon her paradise of joyes 
Than what ye do, albeit good or ill. 
All night therefore attend your merry play, 
Por it will soone be day ; 
Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing ; 
Ne will the woods now answer, nor your echo 
ring. 

"Who is the same, which at my window peepes ? 

Or whose is that fayre face that shines so bright ? 

Is it not Cinthia, she that never sleepes ? 

But walks about high Heaven all the night ? 

fayi'est goddesse, do thou not envy 

My love with me to spy ; 

Por thou likewise didst love, though now un- 

thought. 
And for a fleece of wool which privily 
The Latmian shepherd once unto thee brought, 
His pleasures with thee wrought. 
Therefore to us be favourable now ; 
And sith of women's labours thou hast charge, 
And generation goodly dost enlarge, 
Encline thy will t' effect our wishfull vow. 
And the chast womb informe with timely seed, 
That may our comfort breed : 
Till which we cease our hopefull hap to sing ; 
Ne let the woods us answer, nor our echo ring. 

And thou, great Juno ! which with awful might 
The lawes of wedlock still dost patronize ; 
And the religion of the faith first plight 
With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize ; 
And eke for comfort often called art 
Of women in their smart — 
Eternally bind thou this lovely band. 
And all thy blessings unto us impart. 
And thou, glad genius ! in whose gentle hand 
The brydale bowre and geniall bed remaine, 
"Without blemish or staine ; 
And the sweet pleasures of theyr love's delight 
"With secret ayde dost succour and supply. 
Till they bring forth the fruitful progeny ; 
Send us the timely fruit of this same night ; 
And thou, fayre Hebe ! and thou. Hymen free ! 
Grant that it may so be ; 



NOT OURS 


THE VOWS. 339 


Till which we cease your f ui-ther praise to sing, 


Such be your gentle motion. 


Ne any wood shall answer, nor your echo ring. 


Till life's last pulse shall beat ; 




Like summer's beam, and summer's stream. 


And ye, high heavens, the temple of the gods, 


Float on, in joy, to meet 


In which a thousand torches flaming bright 


A calmer sea, where storms shall cease — 


Do burne, that to us wretched earthly clods 


A purer sky, where all is peace. 


In dreadful darknesse lend desired light ; 


John G. C. Bkainakd. 


And all ye powers which in the same remayne. 




More than we men can fayne — 




Poure out your blessing on us plentiously. 


55'ot ©lira tl)e botos. 


And happy influence upon us raine, 


That we may raise a large posterity, 




Which, from the earth which they may long pos- 


Not ours the vows of such as plight 


sesse 


Their troth in sunny weather. 


With lasting happinesse. 


WMle leaves are green, and skies are bright. 


Up to your haughty paUaces may mount ; 


To walk on flowers together. 


And, for the guerdon of theyr glorious merit, 


But we have loved as those who tread 


May heavenly tabernacles there inherit, 
Of blessed saints for to increase the count. 


The thorny patffof sorrow, 




With clouds above, and cause to dread 


So let us rest, sweet love, in hope of this, 




' ' X ' 


Yet deeper gloom to-morrow. 


And cease till then our tjTnely joyes to sing : 


The woods no more us answer, nor our echo 


That thorny path, those stormy skies, 


ring. 


Have drawn our spirits nearer ; 




And rendered us, by sorrow's ties, 


So7ig ! made in lieu of many ornaments, 


Each to the other dearer. 


With ivhich my love should duly have been decM, 




Which cutting off through hasty accidents, 


Love, bom in hours of joy and mirth, 


Ye would not stay your due time to expect. 


With mirth and joy may perish ; 


But promist both to recompense- 


That to which darker hours gave birth 


Be unto her a goodly ornament. 


StUl more and more we cherish. 


And for short time an endlesse monument. 




Edmund Spenser. 


It looks beyond the clouds of time. 




And through death's shadowy portal ; 




Made by adversity sublime, 




By faith and hope immortal. 


®j]itl)alomitiin. 


Bernaed Babton. 


I SAW two clouds at morning, 




Tinged by the rising sun. 




And in the dawn they floated on. 


ills ^0^'^ ^^^ STalkcir. 


And mingled into one ; 




I thought that morning cloud was blest. 


My love has talked with rocks and trees ; 


It moved so sweetly to the west. 


He finds on misty moimtain-gi-ound 




His own vast shadow glory-crowned ; 


I saw two summer currents 


He sees himself in all he sees. 


Flow smoothly to their meeting. 




And join their course with silent force. 


Two partners of a man-ied life, — 


In peace each other greeting ; 


I looked on these and thought of thee 


Calm was their course through banks of green, 


In vastness and in mystery, 


While dimpling eddies played between. 


And of my spirit as of a wife. 



340 POEMS OF LOVE. 


These two, they dwelt with eye on eye ; 

Their hearts of old have beat in tune ; 

Their meetings made December June ; 
Their every parting was to die. 


I miss thee at the dawning gray, 
When, on our deck reclined. 

In careless ease my limbs I lay 
And woo the cooler wind. 


Their love has never passed away ; 
The days she never can forget 
Are earnest that he loves her yet, 

Whate'er the faithless people say. 


I miss thee when by Gunga's stream 

My twilight steps I guide. 
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam 

I miss thee from my side. 


Her life is lone — he sits apart — 

He loves her yet — she will not weep, 
Though, rapt in matters dark and deep 

He seems to slight her simple heart. 


I spread my books, my pencil try, 
The lingering noon to cheer. 

But miss thy kind, approving eye, 
Thy meek, attentive ear. 


He thrids the labyrinth of the mind ; 

He reads the secret of the star ; 

He seems so near and yet so far ; 
He looks so cold : she thinks him kind. 


But when at morn and eve the star 
Beholds me on my knee, 

I feel, though thou art distant far, 
Thy prayers ascend for me. 


She keeps the gift of years before — 
A withered violet is her bliss ; 
She knows not what his greatness is ; 

For that, for all, she loves him more. 


Then on ! then on ! where duty leads, 
My course be onward still. 

O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads, 
O'er bleak Almorah's hUl. 


For him she plays, to him she sings 
Of early faith and plighted vows ; 
She knows but matters of the house ; 

And he, he knows a thousand things. 


That course nor Delhi's kingly gates, 
Nor mild Malwah detain ; 

For sweet the bliss us both awaits 
By yonder western main. 


Her faith is fixed and cannot move ; 

She darkly feels him great and wise ; 

She dwells on him with faithful eyes : 
" I cannot understand — 1 love." 


Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say. 

Across the dark blue sea ; 
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay 

As then shall meet in thee ! 


Alpked Tennyson. 


Keginald Hebek. 


Sf Sljott txjert bg tnu Siic, mg tow. 


a tDisIi. 


If thou wert by my side, my love. 
How fast would evening fail 

In green Bengala's palmy grove, 
Listening the nightingale ! • 


Mine be a cot beside the hill ; 

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear : 
A willowy brook, that turns a mill, 

"With many a fall shall linger near. 


If thou, my love, wert by my side, 

My babies at my knee. 
How gayly would our pinnace glide 

O'er Gunga's mimic sea ! 


1 
The swallow oft beneath my thatch 

Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ; 
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch. 

And share my meal, a welcome gijest. 



THE FIRESIDE. 



341 



Around my ivied porch shall spring 
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The village church among the trees. 

Where first our marriage tows were given, 

With merry peals shall swell the breeze 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 

Sajittel Kogees. 



Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd, 
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud. 

In folly's maze advance ; 
Though singularity and pride 
Be called our choice, we'll step aside, 

Nor join the giddy dance. 

From the gay world we'll oft retire 
To our own family and fire. 

Where love our hours employs ; 
No noisy neighbor enters here. 
No intermeddling stranger near. 

To spoil our heartfelt joys. 

If solid happiness we prize. 
Within our breast this Jewel lies. 

And they are fools who roam ; 
The world has nothing to bestow — 
Prom our own selves our bliss must flow, 

And that dear hut, our home. 

Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers. 
We, who improve his golden hours. 

By sweet experience know 
That marriage, rightly understood. 
Gives to the tender and the good 

A paradise below. 

Our babes shall richest comforts bring ; 
If tutored right, they'll prove a spring 

Whence pleasures ever rise ; 
We'll form their minds with studious care 
To aU that's manly, good, and fair, 
• And train them for the skies. 



WhUe they our wisest hours engage. 
They'll joy our youth, support our age, 

And crown our hoary hairs ; 
They'll grow in virtue every day, 
And thus our fondest loves repay. 

And recompense our cares. 

No borrowed joys, they're all our own. 
While to the world we live unknown. 

Or by the world forgot ; 
Monarchs, we envy not your state — 
We look with pity on the great. 

And bless our humble lot. 

Our portion is not large, indeed ; 
But then how little do we need, 

For nature's calls are few ; 
In this the art of living lies. 
To want no more than may suSice, 

And make that little do. 

We'll therefore relish with content 
Whate'er kind Providence has sent. 

Nor aim beyond our power ; 
For, if our stock be very small, 
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all, 

Nor lose the present hour. 

To be resigned when ills betide. 
Patient when favors are denied. 

And pleased with favors given — 
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part. 
This is that incense of the heart. 

Whose fragrance smells to heaven. 

We'll ask no long-protracted treat. 
Since winter-life is seldom sweet ; 

But, when our feast is o'er. 
Grateful from table we'll arise. 
Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes. 

The relics of our store. 

Thus hand in hand through life we'll go ; 
Its chequered paths of joy and woe 

With cautious steps we'll tread ; 
Quit its vain scenes without a tear. 
Without a trouble, or a fear. 

And mingle with the dead ; 



342 POEMS OF LOVE. 


While conscience, like a faithful friend, 


, The dusty day is done. 


Shall through the gloomy vale attend. 


The night begun ; 


And cheer our dying breath — 


While prayerful watch I keep, 


Shall, when all other comforts cease, 


Sleep, love, sleep ! 


Like a kind angel whisper peace, 


Is there no magic in the touch 


And smooth the bed of death. 


Of fingers thou dost love so much % 


Nathaniel Cotton. 


Fain would they scatter poppies o'er thee now ; 




Or, with its mute caress, 




The tremulous lip some soft nepenthe press 


M-a toife's a toineome iUce Shina. 


Upon thy weary lid and aching brow ; 


iM f jj 


While prayerful watch I keep, 


She is a winsome wee thing, 


Sleep, love, sleep ! - 


She is a handsome wee thing. 




She is a bonnie wee thing, 


On the pagoda spire 


This sweet wee wife o' mine. 


The beUs are swinging. 




Their little golden circlet in a flutter 


I never saw a fairer, 




I never lo'ed a dearer, 


With tales the wooing winds have dared to 
utter 


And neist my heart I'll wear her, 


For fear my jewel tine. 


Till all are ringing, . 
As if a choir 


She is a winsome wee thing. 


Of golden-nested birds in heaven were sing- 


She is a handsome wee thing, 


ing; 


She is a bonnie wee thing. 


And with a lulling sound 


This sweet wee wife of mine. 


The music floats around. 




And drops like balm into the drowsy ear ; 


The warld's wrack, we share o't, 


Commingling with the hum 


The warstle and the care o't. 


Of the Sepoy's distant drum. 


Wi' her I'll blji;hely bear it. 


And lazy beetle ever droning near. 


And think my lot divine. 


Sounds these of deepest silence born. 


Egbert Bukns. 


Like night made visible by morn ; 




So silent that I sometimes start 


toatc[)ing. 


To hear the throbbings of my heart. 


And watch, with shivering sense of pain. 


Sleep, love, sleep ! 


To see thy pale lids lift again. 


The dusty day is done. 




Lo ! from afar the freshening breezes sweep 


The lizard, with his mouse-like eyes, 


Wide over groves of balm. 


Peeps from the mortise in surprise 


Down from the towering palm, 


At such strange quiet after day's harsh din ; 


In at the open casement cooling run. 


Then boldly ventures out. 


And round thy lowly bed, 


And looks about, 


Thy bed of pain, 


And with his hollow feet . 


Bathing thy patient head. 


Treads his small evening beat. 


Like grateful showers of rain. 


Darting upon his prey 


They come ; ' 


In such a tricky, winsome sort of way, 


While the white curtains, waving to and fro. 


His delicate marauding seems no sin. 


Fan the sick air ; 


And still the curtains swing, 


And pityingly the shadows come and go, 


But noiselessly ; 


With gentle human care, 


The bells a melancholy murmur ring, 


Compassionate and dumb. 


As tears were in the sky : 



THE POETS BRIDAL-DAY SONG. 



343 



More heavily the shadows fall, 
Like the black foldings of a pall 
Where juts the rough beam from the wall ; 
The candles flare 
With fresher gusts of air ; 
The beetle's drone 

Turns to a dirge-like, solitary moan ; 
Night deepens, and I sit, in cheerless doubt, alone. 
Emilt Chubbuck Jtjdson. 



W:\e |)oet's jBribal-JIDaa Song. 

Oh, my love 's like the steadfast sun, 
Or streams that deepen as they run ; 
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years. 
Nor moments between sighs and tears, 
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain, 
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain. 
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows 
To sober joys and soften woes. 
Can make my heart or fancy flee. 
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. 

Even while I muse, I see thee sit 

In maiden bloom and matron wit ; 

Fair, gentle as when first I sued, 

Ye seem, but of sedater mood ; 

Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee 

As when, beneath Arbigland tree, 

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon 

Set on the sea an hour too soon ; 

Or lingered 'mid the falling dew, 

When looks were fond and words were few. 

Though I see smiling at thy feet 
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet. 
And time, and care, and birthtime woes 
Have dimmed thine eye and touched thy rose, 
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong 
Whate'er charms me in tale or song. 
When words descend like dews, unsought, 
With gleams of deep, enthusiast thought, 
And fancy in her heaven flies free, 
They come, my love, they come from thee. 

Oh, when more thought we gave, of old. 
To silver, than some give to gold, 
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er 
How we should deck our humble bower ; 



'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee, 
The golden fruit of fortune's tree ; 
And sweeter still to choose and twine 
A garland for that brow of thine — 
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, 
While rivers flow, and woods grow green. 

At times there come, as come there ought. 
Grave moments of sedater thought. 
When fortune frowns, nor lends our night 
One gleam of her inconstant light ; 
And hope, that decks the peasant's bower. 
Shines like a rainbow through the shower ; 
Oh, then I see, while seated nigh, 
A mother's heart shine in thine eye, 
And proud resolve and purpose meek, 
Speak of thee more than words can speak, 
I think this wedded wife of mine, 
The best of all that's not divine. 

Allan CimNiNGHAji. 



aije poet's Song to l)is toife. 

How many summers, love. 

Have I been thine ? 
How many days, thou dove, 

Hast thou been mine ? 
Time, like the winged wind 

When 't bends the flowers, 
Hath left no mark behind. 

To count the hours ! 

Some weight of thought, though loth, 

On thee he leaves ; 
Some lines of care round both 

Perhaps he weaves ; 
Some fears, — a soft regret 

For joys scarce known ; 
Sweet looks we half forget ; — 

All else is flown ! 

Ah ! with what thankless heart 

I mourn and sing ! 
Look, where our children start, 

Like sudden spring ! 
With tongues all sweet and low. 

Like a pleasant rhyme, 

They tell how much I owe 

To thee and time ! 

Baert Cornwall. 



344 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



©Ije SUssful ?I)aa. 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet ; 
The' winter wild in tempest toiled, 

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line — 
Than kingly robes, and crowns and globes, 

Heaven gave me more ; it made thee mine. 

Wliile day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give — 
While joys above my mind can move, 

For thee and thee alone I live ; 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part, 
The iron hand that breaks our band, 

It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart. 

BoBEBT Burns. 



^\\z ®olI>en tocbbing. 

Love, whose patient pilgrim feet 

Life's longest path have trod ; 
Whose ministry hath symboUed sweet 

The dearer love of God ; 
The sacred myrtle wreathes again 

Thine altar, as of old ; 
And what was green with summer then. 

Is mellowed now to gold. 

Not now, as then, the future's face 

Is flushed with fancy's light ; 
But memory, with a milder grace. 

Shall rule the feast to-night. 
Blest was the sun of joy that shone. 

Nor less the blinding shower ; 
The bud of fifty years agone 

Is love's perfected flower. 



O memory, ope thy mystic door ; 

dream of youth, return ; 
And let the light that gleamed of yore 

Beside this altar burn. 
The past is plain ; 'twas love designed 

E'en sorrow's iron chain ; 
And mercy's shining thread has twined 

With the dark warp of pain. 

So be it still. Thou who hast 

That younger bridal blest. 
Till the May-morn of love has passed 

To evening's golden west ; 
Come to this later Cana, Lord, 

And, at thy touch divine. 
The water of that earlier board 

To-night shall turn to wine. 

David Gray. 



John Anderson, my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 

Your locks are like the snow ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson, my jo ! 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

We elamb the hill thegither; 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither ; 
Now we maun totter doun, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go. 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, my jo. 

Robert Burns. 



PAET T. 
POEMS OP AMBITION 



Patriots have toiled, and in their country's cause 
Bled nobly ; and their deeds, as they deserve, 
Receive proud recompense. We give in charge 
Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic Muse, 
Proud of the treasure, marches with it down 
To latest times ; and Sculpture, in her turn, 
Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass 
To guard them, and to immortalize her trust. 

, William Covvpek. 



■ Oh courage ! there he comes ; 



What ray of honor round about him looms ! 

Oh, what new beams from his bright eyes do glance 1 

O princely port ! presagcful countenance 

Of hap at hand 1 He doth not nicely prank 

In clinquant pomp, as some of meanest rank, 

But armed in steel ; that bright habiliment 

Is his rich valor's sole rich ornament. 

Joshua Stlvester. 



En avant ! marchons 
Contre leurs canons ! 
A travers le fer, le fen des battaillons, 
Courons a la victoire ! 

Casimib de la Vigne. 



The perfect heat of that celestial fire, 
That so inflames the pure heroic breast. 
And lifts the thought, that it can never rest 

Till it to heaven attain its prime desire. 

LOED ThUELOW. 



POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 


^oratins. 


From sea-girt Populonia, 




Whose sentinels descry 


A LAY MADE ABOUT THE YEAR OF ROME CCCLX. 


Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops 


Lars Porsena of Clusium, 


Fringing the southern sky ; 


By the nine gods he swore 


From the proud mart of Pisae, 


That the great house of Tarquin 


Queen of the western waves. 


Should suffer wrong no more. 


Where ride MassUia's triremes. 


By the nine gods he swore it. 


Heavy with fair-haired slaves ; 


And named a trysting day, 


From where sweet Clanis wanders 


And bade his messengei's ride forth, 


Through corn and vines and flowers, 


East and west and south and norths 


From where Cortona lifts to heaven 


To summon his array. 


Her diadem of towers. 


East and west and south and north 


TaU are the oaks whose acorns 


The messengers ride fast, 


Drop in dark Auser's riU ; 


And tower and town and cottage 


Fat are the stags that champ the boughs 


Have heard the trumpet's blast. 


Of the Ciminian hill ; 


Shame on the false Etruscan 


Beyond all streams, Clitumnus 


Who lingers in his home. 


Is to the herdsman dear ; 


When Porsena of Clusium 


Best of all pools the fowler loves 


Is on the march for Rome ! 


The great Volsinian mere. 


The horsemen and the footmen 


But now no stroke of woodman 


Are pouring in amain 


Is heard by Auser's rill ; 


From many a stately market-place. 


No hunter tracks the stag's green path 


From many a fruitful plain, 


Up the Ciminian hill ; 


From many a lonely hamlet, 


TJnwatched along Clitumnus 


Which, hid by beech and pine, 


Grazes the milk-white steer ; 


Like an eagle's nest hangs on the crest 


Unharmed the water-fowl may dip 


Of purple Apennine ; 


In the Volsinian mere. 


From lordly Volaterrae, 


The harvests of Arretium, 


Where scowls the far-famed hold 


This year, old men shall reap ; 


Piled by the hands of giants 


This year, young boys in Umbro 


For godlike kings of old ; 


Shall plunge the struggling sheep ; 



348 POEMS OF AMBITION. 


And in the vats of Luna, 


For aged folk on crutches, 


This year, the must shall foam 


And women great with child, 


Round the white feet of laughing girls 


And mothers, sobbing over babes 


Whose sires have marched to Eome. 


That clung to them and smiled, 




And sick men borne in litters 


. There be thirty chosen prophets, 


High on the necks of slaves, 


The wisest of the land. 


And troops of sunburned husbandmen 


Who alway by Lars Porsena 


With reaping-hooks and staves, 


Both morn and evening stand. 




Evening and morn the thirty 


And droves of mules and asses 


Have turned the verses o'er, 


Laden with skins of wine, 


Traced from the right on linen white 


And endless flocks of goats and sheep, 


By mighty seers of yore ; 


And endless herds of kine. 




And endless trains of wagons, 


And with one voice the thirty 


That creaked beneath the weight 


Have their glad answer given : 


Of corn-sacks and of household goods, 


" Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena — 


Choked every roaring gate. 


Go forth, beloved of heaven ! 




Go, and return in glory 


Now, from the rock Tarpeian, 


To Clusium's royal dome, 


Could the wan burghers spy 


And hang round Nurscia's altars 


The line of blazing villages 


The golden shields of Rome ! " 


Red in the midnight sky. 




The fathers of the city. 


And now hath every city 


They sat all night and day. 


Sent up her tale of men ; 


For every hour some horseman came 


The foot are fourscore thousand, 


With tidings of dismay. 


The horse are thousands ten. 




Before the gates of Sutrium 


To eastward and to westward 


Is met the great array ; 


Have spread the Tuscan bands. 


A proud man was Lars Porsena 


Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecot, 


Upon the trysting day. 


In Crustumerium stands. 




Verbenna down to Ostia 


For all the Etruscan armies 


Hath wasted all the plain ; 


Were ranged beneath his eye, 


Astur hath stormed Janiculum, 


And many a banished Roman, 


And the stout guards are slain. 


And many a stout ally ; 




And with a mighty following, 


I wis, in all the senate 


To join the muster, came 


There was no heart so bold 


The Tusculan Mamilius, 


But sore it ached, and fast it beat, 


Prince of the Latian name. 


When that ill news was told. 




Forthwith up rose the consul, 


But by the yellow Tiber 


Up rose the fathers all ; 


Was tumult and affright ; 


In haste they girded up their gowns. 


Prom all the spacious champaign 


And hied them to the wall. 


To Rome men took their flight. 




A mile around the city 


They held a council, standing 


The throng stopped up the ways ; 


Before the river-gate ; 


A fearful sight it was to see 


Short time was there, ye well may guess, 


Through two long nights and days. 


For musing or debate. 



HORATIUS. 349 


Out spake the consul roundly : 


Lars Porsena of Clusium 


" The bridge must straight go down ; 


Sat in his ivory car. 


For, since Janieulura is lost, 


By the right wheel rode Mamilius, 


Nought else can save the town." 


Prince of the Latian name ; 




And by the left false Sextus, 


Just then a scout came flying, 


That wrought the deed of shame. 


All wild with haste and fear : 
" To arms ! to arms ! sir consul — 


But when the face of Sextus 


Lars Porsena is here." 
On the low hills to westward 

The consul fixed his eye, 
And saw the swarthy storm of dust 

Rise fast along the sky. 


Was seen among the foes, 
A yell that rent the firmament 

From all the town arose. 
On the housetops was no woman 

But spat towards him and hissed, 
No child but screamed out curses, 


And nearer fast and nearer 


And shook its little fist. 


Doth the red whirlwind come ; 
And louder still, and still more loud. 
From underneath that rolling cloud, 
Is heard the trumpets' war-note proud. 

The trampling and the hum. 
And plainly and more plainly 

Now through the gloom appears. 
Far to left and far to right. 
In broken gleams of dark-blue light, 


But the consul's brow was sad. 

And the consul's speech was low, 
And darkly looked he at the wall. 

And darkly at the foe : 
" Their van will be upon us 

Before the bridge goes down ; 
And if they once may win the bridge. 

What hope to save the town ? " 


The long array of helmets bright. 


Then out spake braye Horatius, 


The long array of spears. 


The captain of the gate : 


And plainly and more plainly. 
Above that glimmering line, 

Now might ye see the banners 
Of twelve fair cities shine ; 

But the banner of proud Clusium 
Was highest of them all — 


" To every man upon this earth 
Death eometh soon or late. 

And how can man die better 
Than facing fearful odds 

For the ashes of his fathers. 
And the temples of his gods ? 


The terror of the Umbrian, 


"And for the tender mother 


The terror of the Gaul. 


Who dandled him to rest. 




And for the wife who nurses 


And plainly and more plainly 


His baby at her breast, 


Now might the burghers know. 


And for the holy maidens 


By port and vest, by horse and crest, 


Who feed the eternal flame — 


Each warlike Lucumo : 


To save them from false Sextus 


There Cilnius of Arretium 
On his fleet roan was seen ; 


That wrought the deed of shame ? 


And Astur of the fourfold shield. 


" Hew down the bridge, sir consul, 


Gu't with the brand none else may wield ; 


With all the speed ye may ; 


Tolumnius with the belt of gold, 
And dark Verbenna from the hold 


I, with two more to help me, 
Will hold the foe in play — . 


By reedy Thrasymene. 


In yon strait path a thousand 
May well be stopped by three. 


Fast by the royal standard, 


Now who will stand on either hand. 


O'erlooking all the war, 


And keep the bridge with me ? " 



350 POEMS OF AMBITION. 


Then out spake Spurius Lartius — 


Pour hundred trumpets sounded 


A Ramnian proud was he : 


A peal of warlike glee, 


" Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, 


As that great host, with measured tread, 


And keep the bridge with thee." 


And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, 


And out spake strong Herminius — 


Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head, 


Of Titian blood was he : 


Where stood the dauntless three. 


" I will abide on thy left side, 




And keep the bridge with thee." 


The three stood calm and silent. 




And looked upon the foes, 


" Horatius," quoth the consul, 


And a great shout of laughter 


" As thou sayest, so let it be." 


From all the vanguard rose ; 


And straight against that great array 


And forth three chiefs came spurring 


Forth went the dauntless three. 


Before that deep array ; 


For Romans in Rome's quarrel 


To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, 


Spared neither land nor gold, 


And lifted high their shields, and flew 


Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, 


To win the narrow way. 


In the brave days of old. 






Annus, from green Tifernum, 


Then none was for a party — 


Lord of the hill of vines ; 


Then all were for the state ; 


And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves 


Then the great man helped the poor, 


Sicken in Ilva's mines ; 


And the poor man loved the great ; 


And Picus, long to Clusium 


Then lands were fairly portioned ! 


Vassal in peace and war, 


Then spoils were fairly sold : 


Who led to fight his Umbrian powers 


The Romans were like brothers 


From that gray crag where, girt with towers. 


In the brave days of old. 


The fortress of Nequinum lowers 




O'er the pale waves of Nar. 


Now Roman is to Roman 




More hateful than a foe. 


Stout Lartius hurled down Annus 


And the tribunes beard the high, 


Into the stream beneath ; 


And the fathers grind the low. 


Herminius struck at Seius, 


As we wax hot in faction, 


And clove him to the teeth ; 


In battle we wax cold ; 


At Picus brave Horatius 


Wherefore men fight not as they fought 


Darted one flery thrust. 


In the brave days of old. 


And the proud Umbrian's gUded arms 




Clashed in the bloody dust. 


Now while the three were tightening 




Their harness on their backs. 


Then Ocnus of Falerii 


The consul was the foremost man 


Rushed on the Roman three ; 


To take in hand an axe ; 


And Lausulus of Urgo, 


And fathers, mixed with commons. 


The rover of the sea ; 


Seized hatchet, bar, and crow. 


And Aruns of Volsinium, 


And smote upon the planks above, 


Who slew the great wUd boar — 


And loosed the props below. 


The great wUd boar that had his den 


» 


Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, 


Meanwhile the Tuscan army. 


And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, 


Right glorious to behold. 


Along Albinia's shore. 


Came flashing back the noonday light, 




Rank behind rank, like surges bright 


Herminius smote down Aruns ; 


Of a broad sea of gold. 


Lartius laid Ocnus low ; 



HORATIUS. 351 


Eight to the heart of Lausulus 


Then, like a wild-eat mad with wounds, 


Horatius sent a blow : 


Sprang right at Astur's face. 


" Lie there," he cried, " fell pirate ! 


Through teeth, and skull, and helmet. 


No more, aghast and pale. 


So fierce a thrust he sped, 


From Ostia's waUs the crowd shall mark 


The good sword stood a hand-breadth out 


The track of thy destroying bark ; 


Behind the Tuscan's head. 


No more Campania's hinds shall fly 




To woods and caverns, when they spy 


And the great lord of Luna 


Thy thrice-accursed sail ! " 


Fell at that deadly stroke. 




As falls on Mount Avernus 


But now no sound of laughter 


A thunder-smitten oak. 


Was heard among the foes ; 


Far o'er the crashing forest 


A wild and wrathful clamor 


The giant arms lie spread ; 


From all the vanguard rose. 


And the pale augurs, muttering low, 


Six spears' lengths from the entrance 


Gaze on the blasted head. 


Halted that deep array. 




And for a space no man came forth 


On Astur's throat Horatius 


To win the narrow way. 


Right firmly pressed his heel. 




And thi'ice and four times tugged amain. 


But, hark ! the cry is Astur : 


Ere he wrenched out the steel. 


And lo ! the ranks divide ; 


" And see," he cried, " the welcome. 


And the great lord of Luna 


Fair guests, that waits you here ! 


Comes with his stately stride. 


What noble Lucumo comes next 


Upon his ample shoulders 


To taste our Roman cheer?" 


Clangs loud the fourfold shield. 




And in his hand he shakes the brand 


But at his haughty challenge 


Which none but he can wield. . 


A sullen murmur ran. 




Mingled with wrath, and shame, and dread, 


He smiled on those bold Romans, 


Along that glittering van. 


A smile serene and high ; 


There lacked not men of prowess, 


He eyed the flinching Tuscans, 


Nor men of lordly race ; 


And scorn was in his eye. 


For all Etruria's noblest 


Quoth he, " The she-wolf's litter 


Were round the fatal place. 


Stand savagely at bay ; 




But will ye dare to follow. 


But all Etruria's noblest 


If Astur clears the way ? " 


Pelt their hearts sink to see 




On the earth the bloody corpses, 


Then, whirling up his broadsword 


In the path the dauntless three ; 


With both hands to the height, 


And from the ghastly entrance. 


He rushed against Horatius, 


Where those bold Romans stood. 


And smote with all his might. 


All shrank — like boys who, unaware. 


With shield and blade Horatius 


Ranging a wood to start a hare, 


Right deftly turned the blow. 


Come to the mouth of the dark lair 


The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh, 


WTiere, growling low, a fierce old bear 


It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh — 


Lies amidst bones and blood. 


The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 




To see the red blood flow. 


Was none who would be foremost 




To lead such dire attack ; 


He reeled, and on Herminius 


But those behind cried " Forward ! " 


He leaned one breathing-space — 


And those before cried " Back ! " 



352 POEMS OF AMBITION. 


And backward now, and forward, 


And like a horse unbroken. 


Wavers the deep array ; 


When first he feels the rein, 


And on the tossing sea of steel 


The furious river struggled hard, 


To and fro the standards reel. 


And tossed his tawny mane. 


And the victorious trumpet-peal 


And burst the curb, and bounded, 


Dies fitfully away. 


Rejoicing to be free; 




And whirling, down in fierce career, 


Yet one man for one moment 
Strode out before the crowd ; 


Battlement, and plank, and pier, 
Rushed headlong to the sea. 


Well known was he to all the three, 


And they gave him greeting loud : 


Alone stood brave Horatius, 


" Now welcome, welcome, Sextus ! 


But constant stOl in mind — 


Now welcome to thy home ! 


Thrice thirty thousand foes before, 


Why dost thou stay, and turn away ? 


And the broad flood behind. 


Here lies the road to Rome." 


" Down with him ! " cried false Sextus, 


Thrice looked he at the city ; 
Thrice looked he at the dead ; 


With a smile on his pale face ; 


" Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, 


And thrice came on in fury. 


" Now yield thee to our grace ! " 


And thrice turned back in dread ; 


Round turned he, as not deigning 


And, white with fear and hatred, 


Those craven ranks to see ; 


Scowled at the narrow way 


Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, 

To Sextus nought spake he ; 
But he saw on Palatinus 


Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, 
The bravest Tuscans lay. 


But meanwhile axe and lever 


The white porch of his home ; 


Have manfully been plied ; 


And he spake to the noble river 


And now the bridge hangs tottering 


That roUs by the towers of Rome : 


Above the boiling tide. 




" Come back, come back, Horatius ! " 


" Tiber ! father Tiber ! 


Loud cried the fathers all — 


To whom the Romans pray. 


" Back, Lartius ! back, Herminius ! 


A Roman's life, a Roman's arms. 


Back, ere the ruin fall ! " 


Take thou in charge this day ! " 




So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed 


Back darted Spurius Lartius — 


The good sword by his side. 


Herminius darted back ; 


And, with his harness on his back. 


And, as they passed, beneath their feet 


Plunged headlong in the tide. 


They felt the timbers crack. 




But when they turned their faces, 


No sound of Joy or sorrow 


And on the farther shore 


Was heard from either bank, 


Saw brave Horatius stand alone. 


But friends and foes in dumb surprise, 


They would have crossed once more ; 


With parted lips and straining eyes, 




Stood gazing where he sank ; 


But with a crash like thunder 


And when above the surges 


Pell every loosened beam, 


They saw his crest appear. 


And, like a dam, the mighty w^eck 


All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry. 


Lay right athwart the stream ; 


And even the ranks of Tuscany 


And a long shout of triumph 


Could scarce forbear to cheer. 


Rose from the walls of Rome, 




As to the highest turret-tops 


But fiercely ran the current. 


Was splashed the yellow foam. 


Swollen high by months of rain ; 

1 



TEE DESTRUCTION 


OF SENNACHERIB. 353 


And fast his blood was flowing ; 


And still his name sounds stirring 


And he was sore in pain, 


Unto the men of Rome, 


And heavy with his armor, 


As the trumpet-blast that cries to them 


And spent with changing blows ; 


To charge the Volscian home ; 


And oft they thought him sinking, 


And wives still pray to Juno 


But still again he rose. 


For boys with hearts as bold 




As his who kept the bridge so well 


Never, I ween, did swimmer, 


In the brave days of old. 


In such an evil case, 




Struggle through such a raging flood 


And in the nights of winter. 


Safe to the landing place ; 


When the cold north winds blow, 


But his limbs were borne up bravely 


And the long howling of the wolves 


By the brave heart within, 


Is heard amidst the snow ; 


And our good father Tiber 


When round the lonely cottage 


Bare bravely up his chin. 


Roars loud the tempest's din, 


" Curse on him ! " quoth false Sextus, — 


And the good logs of Algidus 
Roar louder yet within ; 


" Will not the villain drown ? 


But for this stay, ere close of day 


When the oldest cask is opened. 


We should have sacked the town ! " 


And the largest lamp is lit ; 


" Heaven help him ! " quoth Lars Porsena, 


When the chestnuts glow in the embers, 


" And bring him safe to shore ; 


And the kid turns on the spit ; 


For such a gallant feat of arms 


When young and old in circle 


Was never seen before." 


Around the firebrands close ; 


And now he feels the bottom ; 


When the girls are weaving baskets, 


Now on dry earth he stands ; 


And the lads are shaping bows ; 


Now round him throng the fathers • 


When the goodman mends his armor. 


To press his gory hands ; 


And trims his helmet's plume ; 


And now, with shouts and clapping, 


When the goodwife's shuttle merrily 


And noise of weeping loud, 


Goes flashing through the loom ; 


He enters through the river-gate, 


With weeping and with laughter 


Borne by the joyous crowd. 


Still is the story told, 


They gave him of the corn-land, 


How well Horatius kept the bridge 


That was of public right. 


In the brave days of old. 


As much as two strong oxen 


Lord Macaulat. 


Could plough from morn till night ; 




And they made a molten image. 




And set it iip on high — 


Qri)e ^Destruction of Scnnaclierib. 


And there it stands unto this day 




To witness if I lie. 


The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 




And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 


It stands in the comitium, 


And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the 


Plain for all folk to see, — 


sea, 


Horatius in his harness. 


When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 


Halting upon one knee ; 




And underneath is written, 


Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 


In letters all of gold. 


That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; 


How valiantly he kept the bridge 


Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath flown, 


In the brave days of old. 
^5 


That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 



354 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



For the angel of death spread his wings on the 

blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and 

chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever 

grew still I 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his 

pride ; 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his 

mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail ; 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the 

sword. 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 

Lord Byron. 



f armobiua axib ^ristogciton. 

I'll wreathe my sword in myrtle bough, 
The sword that laid the tyrant low, 
When patriots, burning to be free, 
To Athens gave equality. 

Harmodius, hail ! though 'reft of breath. 
Thou ne'er shalt feel the stroke of death ; 
The heroes' happy isles shall be 
The bright abode allotted thee. 

I'll wreathe my sword in myrtle bough. 
The sword that laid Hipparchus low, 
When at Athena's adverse fane 
He knelt, and never rose again. 

While freedom's name is understood, 
You shall delight the wise and good ; 
You dared to set your country free. 
And gave her laws equality. 
Translation of Lord Denman. Callistratus. (Greek.) 



JJt i0 ®reat for our QTountra to JDie. 

Oh ! it is great for our country to die, where ranks 
are contending : 
Bright is the wreath of our fame ; glory awaits 
us for aye — 
Glory, that never is dim, shining on with light 
never ending — 
Glory that never shall fade, never, oh ! never 
away. 

Oh ! it is sweet for our country to die ! How softly 
reposes 
Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of 
his love, 
Wet by a mother's warm tears ; they crown him 
with garlands of roses, 
Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he 
triumphs above. 

Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for 
country hath perished ; 
Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there 
with her smile ; 
There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is 
cherished ; 
Gods love the young who ascend pure from the 
funeral pile. 

Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious 
river ; 
Not to the isles of the blest, over the blue, roll- 
ing sea ; 
But on Olympian heights shall dwell the devoted 
for ever ; 
There shall assemble the good, there the wise, 
valiant, and free. 

Oh ! then, how great for our country to die, in the 
front rank to perish, 
Firm with our breast to the foe, victory's shout 
in our ear ! 
Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our 
memory cherish ; 
We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased 
the sweet music to hear. 

James Gates Percivai-. 



BOADIUEA. 355 


jCeonibas. 


Soabiua. 


Shout for the mighty men 


When the British warrior queen, 


"Who died along this shore, 


Bleeding from the Roman rods, 


Who died within this mountain's glen ! 


Sought, with an indignant mien. 


For never nobler chieftain's head 


Counsel of her country's gods. 


Was laid on valor's crimson bed, 




Nor ever prouder gore 


Sage beneath the spreading oak 


Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day 


Sat the Druid, hoary chief ; 


Upon thy strand, Thermopylae I 


Every burning word he spoke 




Full of rage and full of grief : 


Shout for the mighty men 




Who on the Persian tents. 


Princess ! if our aged eyes 


Like lions from their midnight den 


Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 


Bounding on the slumbering deer, 


'Tis because resentment ties 


Rushed — a storm of sword and spear ; 


All the terrors of our tongues. 


Like the roused elements, 




Let loose from an immortal hand 




To chasten or to crush a land ! 


Rome shall perish — write that word 




In the blood that she has spilt : 




Perish, hopeless and abhorred. 


But there are none to hear — 


' XT ' 

Deep in ruin as in guilt. 




Greece is a hopeless slave. 




Leonidas ! no hand is near 




To lift thy fiery falchion now ; 


Rome, for empire far renowned. 


No warrior makes the warrior's vow , 


Tramples on a thousand states ; 


Upon thy sea-washed grave. 


Soon her pride shall kiss the ground — 


The voice that should be raised by men 


Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates ! 


Must now be given by wave and glen. 






Other Romans shall arise. 


And it is given ! The surge, 


Heedless of a soldier's name ; 


The tree, the rock, the sand 


Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, 


On freedom's kneeling spirit urge. 


Harmony the path to fame. 


In sounds that speak but to the free. 




The memory of thine and thee ! 


Then the progeny that springs 


The vision of thy band 


From the forests of our land. 


Still gleams within the glorious dell 


Armed with thunder, clad with wings. 


Where their gore hallowed as it fell ! 


Shall a wider world command. 


And is thy grandeur done ? 


Regions Caesar never knew 


Mother of men like these ! 


Thy posterity shall sway ; 


Has not thy outcry gone 


Where his eagles never flew. 


Wliere justice has an ear to hear? 


None invincible as they. 


Be holy ! God shall guide thy spear, 




Till in thy crimsoned seas 


Such the bard's prophetic words. 


Are plunged the chain and scimitar. 


XL J 

Pregnant with celestial fire, 


Greece shall be a new-bom. star ! 


Bending as he swept the chords 


George Crolt. 


Of his sweet but awful lyre. 



356 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



She, with all a monarch's pride, 
Pelt them in her bosom glow : 

Rushed to battle, fought, and died ; 
Dying, hurled them at the foe. 

Ruffians, pitiless as proud. 

Heaven awards the vengeance due ; 
Empire is on us bestowed. 

Shame and ruin wait for you. 

William Cowpee. 



This was the ruler of the land 

When Athens was the land of fame ; 

This was the light that led the band 
When each was like a living flame ; 

The centre of earth's noblest ring, 

Of more than men the more than king. 

Yet not by fetter, nor by spear. 
His sovereignty was held or won : 

Feared — but alone as freemen fear, 
Loved — but as freemen love alone, 

He waved the sceptre o'er his kind 

By nature's first great title, mind ! 

Resistless words were on his tongue ; 

Then eloquence first flashed below. 
Full armed to life the portent sprung, 

Minerva from the thunderer's brow ! 
And his the sole, the sacred hand 
That shook her aegis o'er the land. 

And throned immortal by his side, 
A woman sits with eye sublime, 

Aspasia, all his spirit's bride ; 

But, if their solemn love were crime, 

Pity the beauty and the sage — 

Their crime was in their darkened age. 

He perished, but his wreath was won — 
He perished in his height of fame ; 

Then sunk the cloud on Athens sun. 
Yet still she conquered in his name. 

Filled with his soul, she could not die ; 

Her conquest was posterity ! 

George Ckolt. 



Dark fell the night, the watch was set, 

The host was idly spread, 
The Danes around their watch-fires met. 

Caroused, and fiercely fed. 

The chiefs beneath a tent of leaves. 

And Guthrum, king of all. 
Devoured the flesh of England's beeves, 

And laughed at England's fall. 
Each warrior proud, each Danish earl, 

In mail and wolf-skin clad. 
Their bracelets white with plundered pearl, 

Their eyes with triumph mad. 

From Humber-land to Severn-land, 

And on to Tamar stream, 
Where Thames makes green the towery strand, 

Where Medway's waters gleam, 
With hands of steel and mouths of flame 

They raged the kingdom through : 
And where the Norseman sickle came, 

No crop but hunger grew. 

They loaded many an English horse 

With wealth of cities fair ; 
They dragged from many a father's corse 

The daughter by her hair. 
And English slaves, and gems and gold, 

Were gathered round the feast : 
Till midnight in their woodland hold, 

Oh ! never that riot ceased. 

In stalked a warrior tall and rude 

Before the strong sea-kings ; 
" Ye lords and earls of Odin's brood. 

Without a harper sings. 
He seems a simple man and poor, 

But well he sounds. the lay ; 
And well, ye Norseman chiefs, be sure, 

Will ye the song repay." 

In trod the bard with keen cold look. 

And glanced along the board. 
That with the shout and war-cry shook 

Of many a Danish lord. 



ALFRED TEE HARPER. 357 


But thirty brows, inflamed and stern, 


When conquests fade, and rule is o'er, 


Soon bent on him their gaze, 


The sod must close your eyes. 


While calm he gazed, as if to learn 


How soon, who knows ? Not chief, nor bard ; 


Who chief deserved his praise. 


And yet to me 'tis given 




To see your foreheads deeply scarred, 


Loud Guthrum spake, — " Nay, gaze not thus. 


And guess the doom of Heaven. 


Thou harper weak and poor ! 




By Thor I who bandy looks with us 


" I may not read or when or how, 


Must worse than looks endure. 


But, earls and kings, be sure 


Sing high the praise of Denmark's host, 


I see a blade o'er eveiy brow, 


High praise each dauntless earl ; 


Where pride now sits secure. 


The brave who stun this English coast 


Pill high the cups, raise loud the strain ! 


With war's unceasing whirl." 


When chief and monarch fall. 




Their names in song shall breathe again, 


The harper slowly bent his head, 


And thrill the feastful hall." 


And touched aloud the string ; 




Then raised his face, and boldly said. 


Grim sat the chiefs ; one heaved a groan. 


" Hear thou my lay, king ! 


And one grew pale with dread. 


High praise from every mouth of man 


His iron mace was grasped by one. 


To all who boldly strive. 


By one his wine was shed. 


Who fall where first the fight began. 


And Guthrum cried, " Nay, bard, no more 


And ne'er go back alive. 


We hear thy boding lay ; 




Make drunk the song with spoil and gore ! 


" Pill high your cups, and swell the shout, 


Light up the joyous fray ! " 


At famous Regnar's name ! 




Who sank his host in bloody rout. 


"Quick throbs my brain," — so burst the 


When he to Humber came. 


song,— 


His men were chased, his sons were slain, 


" To hear the strife once more. 


And he was left alone. 


The mace, the axe, they rest too long ; 


They bound him in an iron chain 


Earth cries. My thirst is sore. 


Upon a dungeon stone. 


More blithely twang the strings of bows 




Than strings of harps in glee ; 


" With iron links they bound him fast ; 


Red wounds are lovelier than the rose. 


With snakes they filled the hole. 


Or rosy lips to me. 


That made his flesh their long repast. 




And bit into his soul. 


" Oh ! fairer than a field of flowers. 




When flowers in England grew. 


" Great chiefs, why sink in gloom your eyes ? 


Would be the battle's marshalled powers. 


Why champ your teeth in pain? 


The plain of carnage new. 


Still lives the song though Regnar dies ! 


With all its deaths before my soul 


Fill high your cups again. 


The vision rises fair ; 


Ye too, perchance, Norseman lords ! 


Raise loud the song, and drain the bowl ! 


Who fought and swayed so long. 


I would that I were there ! " 


Shall soon but live in minstrel words, 




And owe your names to song. 


Loud rang the harp, the minstrel's eye 




Rolled fiercely round the throng ; 


" This land has graves by thousands more 


It seemed two crashing hosts were nigh. 


Than that where Regnar lies. 


Whose shock aroused the song. 



358 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



A golden cup King Guthrum gave 

To him who strongly played ; 
And said, " I won it from the slave 

Who once o'er England swayed." 

King Guthrum cried, " 'Twas Alfred's own ; 

Thy song befits the brave : 
The king who cannot guard his throne 

Nor wine nor song shall have." 
The minstrel took the goblet bright, 

And said, " I drink the wine 
To him who owns by justest right 

The cup thou bid'st be mine. 

" To him, your lord, oh shout ye all ! 

His meed be deathless praise ! 
The king who dares not nobly fall, 

Dies basely all his days." 

" The praise thou speakest," Guthrum said, 

" "With sweetness fills mine ear ; 
For Alfred swift before me fled, 

And left me monarch here. 
The royal coward never dared 

Beneath mine eye to stand. 
Oh, would that now this feast he shared, 

And saw me rule his land ! " 

Then stern the minstrel rose, and spake. 

And gazed upon the king, — 
" Not now the golden cup I take, 

Nor more to thee I sing. 
Another day, a happier hour, 

Shall bring me here again : 
The cup shall stay in Guthrum's power 

Till I demand it then." 

The harper turned and left the shed, 

Nor bent to Guthrum's crown ; 
And one who marked his visage said 

It wore a ghastly frown. 
The Danes ne'er saw that harper more. 

For, soon as morning rose, ' 
Upon their camp King Alfred bore, 

And slew ten thousand foes. 

John Steblxno. 



a;i)e JBnU-iTiglit of ®a?ul. 

King Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid the trum- 
pet sound, 

He hath summoned all the Moorish lords from the 
hills and plains around ; 

From Vega and Sierra, from Betis and Xenil, 

They have come with helm and cuirass of gold and 
twisted steel. 

'Tis the holy Baptist's feast they hold in royalty 
and state. 

And they have closed the spacious lists beside the 
Alhambra's gate ; 

In gowns of black, and silver-laced, within the tent- 
ed ring. 

Eight Moors, to fight the buU, are placed in pres- 
ence of the king. 

Eight Moorish lords of valor tried, with stalwart 
arm and true, 

The onset of the beasts abide, come trooping furi- 
ous through ; 

The deeds they've done, the spoils they've won, fill 
all with hope and trust ; 

Yet, ere high in heaven appears the sun, they all 
have bit the dust. 

Then sounds the trumpet clearly ; then clangs the 

loud tambour : 
Make room, make room for Gazul — throw wide, 

throw wide the door ! 
Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still, more loudly 

strike the drum — 
The Alcayde of Algava to fight the bull doth come ! 

And first before the king he passed, with reverence 
stooping low. 

And next he bowed him to the queen, and the in- 
fantas all a-rowe ; 

Then to his lady's grace he turned, and she to him 
did throw 

A scarf from out her balcony, was whiter than the 



With the life-blood of the slaughtered lords all 

slippery is the sand. 
Yet proudly in the centre hath Gazul ta'en his 

stand ; 



CHEVT-GHASE. 



359 



And ladies look with heaving breast, and lords 

with anxious eye, 
But the lance is firmly in its rest, and his look 

is calm and high. 

Three bulls against the knight are loosed, and two 

come roai'ing on ; 
He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching his 

rejon ; 
Each furious beast upon the breast he deals him 

such a blow. 
He blindly totters and gives back, across the sand 

to go. 

" Turn, Gazul, turn," the people cry — " the third 

comes up behind ; 
Low to the sand his head holds he, his nostrils 

snufE the wind ; " 
The mountaineers that lead the steers without 

stand whispering low, 
" Now thinks this proud Alcayde to stun Harpado 

so?" 

Prom Guadiana comes he not, he comes not from 

Xenil, 
From Guadalarif of the plain, or Baryes of the 

hill; 
But where from out the forest burst Xarama's 

waters clear. 
Beneath the oak-trees was he nursed, this proud 

and stately steer. 

Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within 

doth boil ; 
And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to 

the turmoil. 
His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of 

snow; 
But now they stare with one red glare of brass 

upon the foe. 

Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand 

close and near, 
Prom out the broad and wrinkled skull like daggers 

they appear ; 
His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old 

knotted tree, 
Whereon the monster's shagged mane, like billows 

curled, ye see. 



His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs are 

black as night. 
Like a strong flail he holds his tail in fierceness of 

his might ; 
Like something molten out of iron, or hewn from 

forth the rock, 
Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the Alcayde's 

shock. 

Now stops the drum — close, close they come — 

thrice meet, and thrice give back ; 
The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger's 

breast of black — 
The white foam of the charger on Harpado's front 

of dun : 
Once more advance upon his lance — once more, 

thou fearless one ! 

Once more, once more — in dust and gore to ruin 

must thou reel ; 
In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand with furious 

heel — 
Tn vain, in vain, thou noble beast, I see, I 'see thee 

stagger ; 
Now keen and cold thy neck must hold the stern 

Alcayde's dagger ! 

They have slipped a noose around his feet, six 
horses are brought in. 

And away they drag Harpado with a loud and joy- 
ful din. 

Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand, and the ring 
of price bestow 

Upon Gazul of Algava, that hath laid Harpado 

low. 

Anonymous. (Spanish.) 
Translation of John Gibson Lockhakt. 



God prosper long our noble king. 

Our lives and safeties all ; 
A woful hunting once there did 

In Chevy-Chase befall. 

To drive the deer with hound and horn 

Earl Percy took his way ; 
The child may rue that is unborn 

The hunting of that day. 



360 POEMS OF AMBITION. 


The stout earl of Northumberland 
A vow to God did make, 

His pleasure in the Scottish woods 
Three summer days to take — 


" Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come. 

His men in armor bright ; 
Full twenty hundred Scottish spears 

All marching in our sight ; 




The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chase 

To kill and bear away. 
These tidings to Earl Douglas came, 

In Scotland where he lay ; 


" All men of pleasant Teviotdale, 

Past by the river Tweed ; " 
" Then cease your sports," Earl Percy said, 

" And take your bows with speed ; 




Who sent Earl Percy present word 
He would prevent his sport. 

The English earl, not fearing that, 
Did to the woods resort. 


" And now with me, my countrymen, 
Your courage forth advance ; 

For never was there champion yet. 
In Scotland or in France, 




With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, 
All chosen men of might. 

Who knew fuU well in time of need 
To aim their shafts aright. 


" That ever did on horseback come, 

But if my hap it were, 
I durst encounter man for man, 

With him to break a spear." 




The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran 
To chase the fallow deer ; 

On Monday they began to hunt 
When day-light did appear ; 


Earl Douglas on his milk-white steed. 

Most like a baron bold. 
Rode foremost of his company. 

Whose armor shone like gold. 




And long before high noon they had 
A hundred fat bucks slain ; 

Then having dined, the drovers went 
To rouse the deer again. 


" Show me," said he, " whose men you be. 

That hunt so boldly here. 
That, without my consent, do chase 

And kiU my fallow-deer," 




The bowmen mustered on the hills, 

Well able to endure ; 
And aU their rear, with special care. 

That day was guarded sure. 


The first man that did answer make. 

Was noble Percy he — 
Who said, " We list not to declare. 

Nor show whose men we be : 




The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, 

The nimble deer to take. 
That with their cries the hills and dales 

An echo shrill did make. 


" Yet will we spend our dearest blood 
Thy chiefest harts to slay." 

Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, 
And thus in rage did say : 




Lord Percy to the quarry went. 
To view the slaughtered deer ; 

Quoth he, " Earl Douglas promised 
This day to meet me here ; • 


" Ere thus I will out-braved be. 

One of us two shall die ; 
I know thee well, an earl thou art — 

Lord Percy, so am I. 




" But if I thought he would not come. 

No longer would I stay ; " 
With that a brave young gentleman 

Thus to the earl did say : 


" But trust me, Percy, pity it were. 
And great offence, to kill 

Any of these our guiltless men. 
For they have done no ill. 





CEEVY-CEASE. 361 


" Let you and me the battle try, 


In truth, it was a grief to see 


And set our men aside." 


How each one chose his spear, 


" Accursed be he," Earl Percy said. 


And how the blood out of their breasts 


" By whom this is denied." 


Did gush like water clear. 


Then stepped a gallant squire forth, 


At last these two stout earls did meet ; 


Witherington was his name, 


Like captains of great might. 


Who said, " I would not have it told 


Like lions wode, they laid on lode, 


To Henry, our king, for shame. 


And made a cruel fight. 


" That e'er my captain fought on foot, 


They fought until they both did sweat. 


And I stood looking on. 


With swords of tempered steel. 


You two be earls," said Witherington, 


Until the blood, like drops of rain. 


" And I a squire alone ; 


They trickling down did feel. 


" I'll do the best that do I may, 


" Yield thee. Lord Percy," Douglas said ; 


While I have power to stand ; 


" In faith I wUl thee bring 


While I have power to wield my sword, 


Where thou shalt high advanced be 


I'll iight with heart and hand." 


By James, our Scottish king. 


Our English archers bent their bows — 


" Thy ransom I will freely give. 


Their hearts were good and true ; 


And this report of thee. 


At the jirst flight of arrows sent. 


Thou art the most courageous knight 


Full fourscore Scots they slew. 


That ever I did see." 


Yet stays Earl Douglas on the bent. 


" No, Douglas," saith Earl Percy then, 


As chieftain stout and good ; 


" Thy profiler I do scorn ; 


As valiant captain, all unmoved, 


I will not yield to any Scot 


The shock he firmly stood. 


That ever yet was born." 


His host he parted had in three, 


With that there came an arrow keen 


As leader ware and tried ; 


Out of an English bow. 


And soon his spearmen on their foes 


Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart, 


Bore down on every side. 


A deep and deadly blow ; 


Throughout the English archery 


Who never spake more words than these : 


They dealt full many a wound ; 


" Fight on, my merry men all ; 


But still our valiant Englishmen 


For why, my life is at an end ; 


AU firmly kept their ground. 


Lord Percy sees my fall." 


And throwing straight their bows away. 


Then leaving life, Earl Percy took 


They grasped their swords so bright ; 


The dead man by the hand ; 


And now sharp blows, a heavy shower. 


And said, " Earl Douglas, for thy life 


On shields and helmets light. 


Would I had lost my land. 


They closed full fast on every side — 


" In truth, my very heart doth bleed 


No slackness there was found ; 


With sorrow for thy sake ; 


And many a gallant gentleman 


For sure a more redoubted knight 


Lay gasping on the ground. 


Mischance did never take." 



363 POEMS OF AMBITION. 


A knight amongst the Scots there was 

Who saw Earl Douglas die, 
Who straight in wrath did vow revenge 

Upon the Earl Percy. 


For Witherington my heart is wo 
That ever he slain should be, 

For when his legs were hewn in two, 
He knelt and fought on his knee. 


Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he called, 
Who, with a spear full bright, 

Well mounted on a gallant steed, 
Ean fiercely through the fight ; 


And with Earl Douglas there was slain 

Sir Hugh Mountgomery, 
Sir Charles Murray, that from the field 

One foot would never flee. 


And past the English archers all, 

Without a dread or fear ; 
And through Earl Percy's body then 

He thrust his hateful spear ; 


Sir Charles Murray of RatclifiE, too — 

His sister's son was he ; 
Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed. 

But saved he could not be. 


With such vehement force and might 

He did his body gore, 
The staff ran through the other side 

A large cloth-yard and more. 


And the Lord Maxwell in like case 
Did with Earl Douglas die : 

Of twenty hundred Scottish spears, 
Scarce fifty-five did fiy. 


So thus did both these nobles die. 
Whose courage none could stain. 

An English archer then perceived 
The noble earl was slain. 


Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, 
Went home but fifty-three ; 

The rest in Chevy-Chase were slain, 
Under the greenwood tree. 


He had a bow bent in his hand, 
Made of a trusty tree ; 

An arrow of a cloth-yard long 
To the hard head haled he. 


JNext day did many widows come, 

Their husbands to bewail ; 
They washed their wounds in brinish tears. 

But all would not prevail. 


Against Sir Hugh Mountgomery 

So right the shaft he set, 
The gray goose wing that was thereon 

In his heart's blood was wet. 


Their bodies, bathed in purple blood. 

They bore with them away ; 
They kissed them dead a thousand times, 

Ere they were clad in clay. 


This fight did last from break of day 

Till setting of the sun : 
For when they rung the evening-bell. 

The battle scarce was done. 


The news was brought to Edinburgh, 
Where Scotland's king did reign. 

That brave Earl Douglas suddenly 
Was with an arrow slain : 


With stout Earl Percy there were slain 

Sir John of Egerton, 
Sir Robert Rateliff, and Sir John, 

Sir James, that bold baron. , 


" Oh heavy news," King James did say ; 

" Scotland can witness be 
I have not any captain more 

Of such account as he." 


And with Sir George and stout Sir James, 
Both knights of good account. 

Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain. 
Whose prowess did surmount. 


Like tidings to King Henry came 
Within as short a space, 

That Percy of Northumberland 
Was slain in Chevy-Chase : 



TEE BALLAD OF AGING OURT. 363 


" Now God be with him," said our king, 


To the king sending ; 


"Since 'twill no better be; 


Which he neglects the while, 


I trust I have within my realm 


As from a nation vile. 


Five hundred as good as he : 


Yet, with an angry smile, 




Their fall portending. 


" Yet shall not Scots or Scotland say- 




But I will vengeance take : 


And turning to his men, 


I'll be revenged on them all. 


Quoth our brave Henry then : 


For brave Earl Percy's sake." 


Though they to one be ten, 




Be not amazed ; 


This vow full well the king performed 


Yet have we well begun — 


After at Humbledown ; 


Battles so bravely won 


In one day fifty knights were slain, 


Have ever to the sun 


With lords of high renown ; 


By fame been raised. 


And of the best, of small account, 


And for myself, quoth he, 


Did many hundreds die : 


This my full rest shall be ; 


Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase, 


England ne'er mourn for me, 


Made by the Earl Percy. 


Nor more esteem me. 




Victor I will remain. 


God save the king, and bless this land. 


Or on this earth lie slain ; 


With plenty, Joy, and peace ; 


Never shall she sustain 


And grant, henceforth, that foul debate 


Loss to redeem me. 


'Twixt noblemen may cease ! 




Anonymous. 


Poitiers and Cressy tell. 




When most their pride did swell, 




Under our swords they fell ; 


S[l)c Ballab of ^^gincourt. 


No less our skill is 
Than when our grandsire great, 


Fair stood the wind for France, 


Claiming the regal seat. 


When we our sails advance. 


By many a warlike feat 


Nor now to prove our chance 


Lopped the French lilies. 


Longer will tarry ; 




But putting to the main, 


The Duke of York so dread 


At Kaux, the mouth of Seine, 


The eager vaward led ; 


With all his martial train, 


With the main Heniy sped, 


Landed King Harry. 


Amongst his henchmen. 




Escester had the rear — 


And taking many a fort, 


A braver man not there : 


Furnished in warlike sort, 


Lord ! how hot they were 


Marched towards Agineourt 


On the false Frenchmen ! 


In happy hour — 




Skirmishing day by day 


They now to fight are gone ; 


With those that stopped his way, 


Armor on armor shone ; 


Where the Frencli gen'ral lay 


Drum now to drum did groan — 


With all his power. 


To hear was wonder ; 




That with the cries they make 


Which in his height of pride, 


The very earth did shake ; 


King Henry to deride. 


Trumpet to trumpet spake, 


His ransom to provide 


Thunder to thunder. 



364 P0E3IS OF AMBITION. 


Well it thine age became, 


Suffolk his axe did ply ; 


noble Brpingham ! 


Beaumont and Willoughby 


Which did the signal aim 


Bare them right doughtily. 


To our hid forces ; 


Ferrers and Fanhope. 


When, from a meadow by, ■ 




Like a storm suddenly, 


Upon Saint Crispin's day 


The English archery 


Fought was this noble fray, 


Struck the French horses, 


Which fame did not delay 




To England to carry ; 


With Spanish yew so strong, 


Oh, when shall Englishmen 


Arrows a cloth-yard long, 


With such acts fill a pen. 


That like to serpents stung. 


Or England breed again 


Piercing the weather ; 


Such a King Harry ? 


None from his fellow starts. 


Michael Dkatton. 


But playing manly parts, 




And like true English hearts, 




Stuck close together. 






a:i)e Sari. 


When down their bows they threw, 




And forth their bilbows drew. 


I. 1. 


And on the French they flew, 


" Ruin seize thee, ruthless King ! 


Not one was tardy : 


Confusion on thy banners wait ; 


Arms were from shoulders sent ; 


Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing. 


Scalps to the teeth were rent ; 


They mock the air with idle state. 


Down the French peasants went ; 


Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, 


Our men were hardy. 


Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avaU 




To save thy secret soul from nightly fears. 


This while our noble king. 


From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears ! " 


His broadsword brandishing, 


Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride 


Down the French host did ding. 


Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay. 


As to o'erwhelm it ; 


As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side 


And many a deep wound lent. 


He wound with toilsome march his long array. 


His arms with blood besprent, 


Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance : 


And many a cruel dent 


" To arms ! " cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'- 


Bruised his helmet. 


ring lance. 


Glo'ster, that duke so good. 


I. 2. 


Next of the royal blood, 


On a rock, whose haughty brow 


For famous England stood. 


Frowns o'er cold Conway's foaming flood. 


With his brave brother — 


Robed in the sable garb of woe, 


Clarence, in steel so bright, 


With haggard eyes the poet stood : 


Though but a maiden knight. 


(Loose his beard, and hoary hair 


Yet in that furious fight 


Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air) 


Scarce such another. • 


And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire. 




Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. 


Warwick in blood did wade ; 


" Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave, 


Oxford the foe invade, 


Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath ! 


And cruel slaughter made. 


O'er thee, King ! their hundred arms they wave. 


Still as they ran up. 


Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ; 



THE BARD. 



365 



Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, 

To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. 

I. 3. 

" Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, 

That hiish'd the stormy main : 
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : 

Mountains, ye mourn in vain 

Modred, whose magic song 
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his eloud-topt head. 

On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, 
Smear'd with gore, anc^ ghastly pale ; 
Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail ; 

The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by. 
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art. 

Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, 
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart. 

Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — 
No more I weep. They do not sleep. 

On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, 
I see them sit, they linger yet. 

Avengers of their native land : 
With me in dreadful harmony they join, 
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. 

II. 1. 

" Weave the warp, and weave the woof, 
The winding-sheet of Edward's race. 

Give ample room, and verge enough 
The characters of hell to trace. 
Mark the year, and mark the night, 
When Severn shall re-echo with affright 
The shrieks of death, thro' Berkeley's roof that 

ring. 
Shrieks of an agonizing king ! 

She- wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs. 
That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, 

From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs 
The scourge of Heav'n. What Terrors round him 

wait! 
Amazement in his van, with Flight combin'd. 
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. 

II. 2. 

" Mighty victor, mighty lord ! 
Low on his funeral couch he lies ! 

No pitying heart, no eye, afford 
A tear to grace his obsequies. 



Is the sable warrior fled? 

Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. 

The swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were 

bom, 
Gone to salute the rising morn. 
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr 

blows. 
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm 
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes ; 

Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; 
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, 
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening 

prey. 

II. 3. 

" Fill high the sparkling bowl. 
The rich repast prepare. 

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast ; 
Close by the regal chair 

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 

A baleful smile upon their bafled guest. 
Heard ye the din of battle bray, 

Lance to lance, and horse to horse ? 

Long years of havoc urge their destined 
course. 
And through the kindred squadrons mow their 
way. 

Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame. 
With many a foul and midnight murder fed, 

Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame. 
And spare the meek usurper's holy head. 
Above, below, the rose of snow, 

Twin'd with her blushing foe, we spread : 
The bristled Boar in infant-gore 

Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 
Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom. 
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his 
doom. 

ni. 1. 

" Edward, lo ! to sudden fate 
(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) 

Half of thy heart we consecrate. 
(The web is wove. The work is done.) 
Stay, oh stay ! nor thus forlorn 
Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn : 
In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, 
They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 
But oh ! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height 

Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll ? 



366 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



Visions of glory, spare my aching sight ! 

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! 
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. 
AU hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail ! 

III. 2. 

" Girt with many a baron bold 
Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; 

And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old 
In bearded majesty, appear. 
In the midst a form divine I 
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line : 
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, 
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. 
What strings symphonious tremble in the air. 

What strains of vocal transport round her 
play! 
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear ; 

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, 
Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colored 
wings. 

III. 3. 

" The verse adorn again 

Fierce War, and faithful Love, 
And Truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. 

In buskin'd measures move 
Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, 
With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 

A voice, as of the cherub-choir. 
Gales from blooming Eden bear ; 
And distant warblings lessen on my ear, 

That lost in long futurity expire. 
Pond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine 
cloud, 

Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of 
day! 
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, 

And warms the nations with redoubled ray. 
Enough for me ; with joy I see 

The different doom our fates assign. 
Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care, 

To triumph, and to die, are mine," 
He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's 

height 
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless 
night. 

Thomas Geat. 



®1)« OlotJalkr's Song. 

A STEED ! a steed of matchlesse speed, 

A sword of metal keene 1 
All else to noble heartes is drosse, 

All else on earth is meane. 
The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde, 

The rowlinge of the drum. 
The clangor of the trumpet lowde. 

Be soundes from heaven that come ; 
And oh! the thundering presse of knightes, 

Whenas their war-cryes swell. 
May tole from heaven an angel bright, 

And rouse a fiend from hell. 

Then mounte ! then mounte, brave gallants all, 

And don your helmes amaine ; 
Deathe's couriers, fame and honor, call 

Us to the field againe. 
No shrewish feares shall fill our eye 

When the sword-hilt 's in our hand — 
Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe 

For the f ayrest of the land ; 
Let piping swaine, and craven wight, 

Thus weepe and puling crye ; 
Our business is like men to fight. 

And hero-like to die ! 

William Motherwell. 



IJrince ©ugene. 

Prince Eugene, our noble leader. 
Made a vow in death to bleed, or 

Win the emperor back Belgrade : 
" Launch pontoons, let all be ready 
To bear our ordnance safe and steady 

Over the Danube " — thus he said. 

There was mustering on the border 
When our bridge in marching order 

Breasted first the roaring stream; 
Then at Semlin, vengeance breathing. 
We encamped to scourge the heathen 

Back to Mahound, and fame redeem. 

'Twas on August one-and-twenty. 
Scouts and glorious tidings plenty 



IVBY. 



367 



Galloped in, through storm and rain ; 
Turks, they swore, three hundred thousand 
Marched to give our prince a rouse, and 

Dared us forth to battle-plain. 

Then at Prince Eugene's head-quarters 
Met our line old fighting Tartars 

Generals and field marshals all ; 
Every point of war debated. 
Each in his turn the signal waited, 

Forth to march and on to fall. 

For the onslaught all were eager 
"When the word sped round our leaguer : 

" Soon as the clock chimes twelve to-night 
Then, bold hearts, sound boot and saddle. 
Stand to your arms, and on to battle. 

Every one that has hands to fight ! " 

Musqueteers, horse, yagers, forming. 
Sword in hand each bosom warming. 

Still as death we all advance ; 
Each prepared, come blows or booty, 
German-like to do our duty, 

Joining hands in the gallant dance. 

Our cannoneers, those tough old heroeS) 
Struck a lusty peal to cheer us, 

Firing ordnance great and small ; 
Right and left our cannon thundered, 
Till the pagans quaked, and wondered. 

And by platoons began to fall. 

On the right, like a lion angered. 

Bold Eugene cheered on the bold vanguard ; 

Ludovic spurred up and down, 
Crying " On, boys ; every hand to 't ; 
Brother Germans, nobly stand to 't ; 

Charge them home, for our old renown ! " 

Gallant prince ! he spoke no more ; he 
Pell in early youth and glory. 

Struck from his horse by some curst ball : 
Great Eugene long sorrowed o'er him. 
For a brother's love he bore him ; 

Every soldier mourned his fall. 

In Waradin we laid his ashes ; 
Cannon peals and musket flashes 



O'er his grave due honors paid : 
Then, the old black eagle flying. 
All the pagan powers defying. 

On we marched and stormed Belgrade. 

Anonymous. (German.) 
Translation of John Hughes. 



Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all 

glories are ! 
And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of 

Navarre ! 
Now let there be the merry sound of music and 

the dance. 
Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, 

pleasant land of France ! 
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city 

of the waters. 
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourn- 
ing daughters ; 
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy ; 
•For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought 

thy walls annoy. 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turned the 

chance of war ! 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre. 

Oh ! how our hearts were beating, when, at the 

dawn of day. 
We saw the army of the league drawn out in long 

array ; 
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel 

peers. 
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's 

Flemish spears. 
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses 

of our land ; 
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon 

in his hand ; 
And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's 

empurpled flood. 
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with 

his blood ; 
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the 

fate of war. 
To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of 

Navarre. 



368 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



The king is come to marshal us, in all his armor 

drest ; 
And he has bound a snow-white plurne upon his 

gallant crest. 
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye ; 
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was 

stern and high. 
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from 

wing to wing, 
Down all our line, a deafening shout: God save 

our lord the king ! 
" And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well 

he may — 
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody 

fray — 
Press where ye see my white plume shine amidst 

the ranks of war, 
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Na- 
varre." 

Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to the min- 
gled din, 

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roar- 
ing culverin. 

The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's 
plain. 

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and 
Almayne. 

Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen 
of Prance, 

Charge for the golden lilies — upon them with the 
lance ! 

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand 
spears in rest, 

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the 
snow-white crest ; 

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like 
a guiding star, 

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of 
Navarre. 

Now, God be praised, the day is ours: Mayenne 

hath turned his rein ; 
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter j the Flemish 

count is slain ; 
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a 

Biscay gale ; 
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, 

and cloven mail. 



And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along 

our van. 
Remember Saint Bartholomew ! was passed from 

man to man. 
But out spake gentle Henry — " No Frenchman is 

my foe : 
Down, down, with every foreigner, but let your 

brethren go." 
Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or 

in war, 
As our sovereign lord. King Henry, the soldier of 

Navarre ? 

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought 

for France to-day ; 
And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. 
But we of the religion have borne us best in fight ; 
And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet 

white — 
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en. 
The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of 

false Lorraine. 
Up with it high ; unfurl it wide — that all the host 

may know 
How God hath humbled the proud house which 

wrought His Church such woe. 
Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their 

loudest point of war, 
Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry 
of Navarre. 

Ho ! maidens of Vienna ; ho ! matrons of Lucerne — 
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who 

never shall return. 
Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles. 
That Antwsrp monks may sing a mass for thy poor 

spearmen's souls. 
PIo ! gallant nobles of the league, look that your 

arms be bright ; 
Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and 

ward to-night ; • 
For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God 

hath raised the slave. 
And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor 

of the brave. 
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all 

glories are ; 

And glory to our sovereign lord. King Henry of 

Navarre ! 

LoBD Macattlat. 



NASEBY. 



309 



Bannock-JSurn. 

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled — 
Scots, wham Bruce has af ten led — 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to victoria ! 

Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lower ; 
See approach proud Edward's power — 
Chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor Imave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Let him turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand or freeman fa' — 
Let him follow me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins. 
But they shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty 's in every blow ! 
Let us do, or die ! 

Robert Burns. 



©iue a Bouse. 

King Charles, and who '11 do him right now 1 
King Charles, and who 's ripe for fight now ? 
Give a rouse : here 's in hell's despite now. 
King Charles ! 

Who gave me the goods that went since ? 

Who raised me the house that sank once ? 
Who helped me to gold 1 spent since ? 

Who found me in wine you drank once ? 
King Charles, and ivho 'U do Mm right now 9 
King Charles, and who 's ripe for fight now ? 
Give a rouse : here 's in hell's despite now, 
King Charles ! 
26 



To whom used my boy George quaff else. 
By the old fool's side that begot him ? 

For whom did he cheer and laugh else, 
While Noll's damned troopers shot him ? 

King Charles, and who 'II do him right now ? 

King Charles, and who 's ripe for fight now 9 

Give a rouse : here 's in hell's despite now. 

King Charles! 

Robert Browning. 



Ifflsebs. 

Oh ! wherefore come ye forth in triumph from the 
north. 
With your hands, and your feet, and your rai- 
ment all red ? 
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous 
shout ? 
And whence be the grapes of the wine-press that 
ye tread ? 

Oh ! evil was the root, and bitter was the 
fruit. 
And crimson was the juice of the vintage that 
we trod ; 
For we trampled on the throng of the haughty 
and the strong. 
Who sate in the high places and slew the saints 
of God. 

It was about the noon of a glorious day of 
June, 
That we saw their banners dance and their cui- 
rasses shine. 
And the man of blood was there, with his long es- 
senced hair. 
And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of 
the Rhine. 

Like a servant of the Lord, with his bible and his 
sword. 
The general rode along us to form us for the 
fight; 
When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled 
into a shout 
Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's 
right. 



370 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



And hark! like the roar of the billows on the 
shore, 
The cry of battle rises along their charging 
line: 
For God ! for the cause ! for the Church ! for the 
laws! 
For Charles, king of England, and Rupert of the 
Rhine ! 

The furious German comes, with his clarions and 
his drums. 
His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of White- 
hall; 
They are bursting on our flanks! Grasp your 
pikes ! Close your ranks ! 
For Rupert never comes, but to conquer or to 
fall. 

They are here — they rush on — we are broken — 
we are gone — 
Our left is borne before them like stubble on the 
blast. 
Lord, put forth thy might ! Lord, defend the 
right ! 
Stand back to back, in God's name ! and fight it 
to the last ! 

Stout Skippen hath a wound — the centre hath 
given ground. 
Hark ! hark ! what means the trampling of horse- 
men on our rear ? 
Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he! thank 
God ! 'tis he, boys ! 
Bear up another minute ! Brave Oliver is 
here! 

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a 
row: 
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on 
the dikes. 
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the ac- 
curst. 
And at a shock have scattered the forest of his 
pikes. • 

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to 
hide 
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Tem- 
ple Bar ; 



And he — he turns ! he flies ! shame on those cruel 
eyes 
That bore to look on torture, and dare not look 
on war ! 

Ho, comrades ! scour the plain ; and ere ye strip 
the slain. 
First give another stab to make your search se- 
cure; 
Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad- 
pieces and lockets. 
The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the 
poor. 

Fools ! your doublets shone with gold, and your 
hearts were gay and bold. 
When you kissed your Uly hands to your lemans 
to-day ; 
And to-morrow shall the fox from her chambers in 
the rocks 
Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the 
prey. 

Where be your tongues, that late mocked at heaven, 
and hell, and fate ? 
And the fingers that once were so busy with 
your blades ? 
Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and 
your oaths ? 
Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your dia- 
monds and your spades f 

Down ! down ! for ever down, with the mitre and 
the crown ! 
With the Belial of the court, and the Mammon 
of the Pope ! 
There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in Dur- 
ham's stalls ; 
The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop rends 
his cope. 

And she of the seven hills shall mourn her chil- 
dren's ills. 
And. tremble when she thinks on the edge of 
England's sword ; 
And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when 
they hear 
What the hand of God hath wrought for the 

houses and the word ! 

Lord Macaulat. 



AN EORATIAN ODE. 371 




Though justice against fate complain. 


^n i^oratian (Dbc, 


And plead the ancient rights in vain — 
But those do hold or break. 


UPON Cromwell's return from Ireland. 


As men are strong or weak. 


The forward youth that would appear, 
Must now forsake his Muses dear ; 
Nor in the shadows sing 
His numbers languishing. 


Nature, that hateth emptiness, 

Allows of penetration less. 

And therefore must make room 
Where greater spirits come. 


'Tis time to leave the books in dust, 
And oil the unused armor's rust ; 
Removing from the wall 
The corslet of the hall. 


What field of all the civil war. 
Where his were not the deepest scar ? 

And Hampton shows what part 

He had of wiser art : 


So restless Cromwell could not cease 
In the inglorious arts of peace. 

But through adventurous war 

Urged his active star ; 


Where, twining subtle fears with hope, 
He wove a net of such a scope 

That Charles himself might chase 
To Carisbrook's narrow case ; 


And like the three-forked lightning, first 
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, 

Did thorough his own side 

His fiery way divide. 


That thence the royal actor borne. 
The tragic scaffold might adorn. 
While round the armed bands 
Did clap their bloody hands. 


For 'tis all one to courage high, 
The emulous, or enemy ; 

And, with such, to enclose 
Is more than to oppose. 


He nothing common did or mean 
Upon that memorable scene ; 
But with his keener eye 
The axe's edge did try : 


Then burning through the air he went. 
And palaces and temples rent ; 
And Caesar's head at last 
Did through his laurels blast. 


Nor called the gods, with vulgar spite, 
To vindicate his helpless right ; 

But bowed his comely head 

Down, as upon a bed. 


'Tis madness to resist or blame 
The face of angry heaven's flame ; 
And, if we would speak true, 


This was that memorable hour, 
Which first assured the forced power ; 
So, when they did design 


Much to the man is due. 


The Capitol's fii'st line, 


Who, from his private gardens, where 
He lived reserved and austere. 


A bleeding head, where they begun. 
Did fright the architects to run ; 


(As if his highest plot 


And yet in that the state 


To plant the bergamot,) 


Foresaw its happy fate. 


Could by industrious valor climb 


And now the Irish are ashamed 


To ruin the great work of time. 


To see themselves in one year tamed ; 


And cast the kingdoms old 


So much one man can do. 


Into another mould ! 


That does both act and know. 



373 FOJSMS OF 


AMBITIOJSr. 


They can affirm his praises best, 


Besides the force it has to fright 


And have, though overcome, confest 


The spirits of the shady night, 


How good he is, how just. 


The same arts that did gain 


And fit for highest trust : 


A power, must it maintain. 




Andkew Marvell. 


Nor yet grown stifEer by command, 




But still in the republic's hand, 




How fit he is to sway 
That can so well obey. 


Sonnets. 




TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL. 


He to the commons' feet presents 




A kingdom for his first year's rents, 


Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a 


And, what he may, forbears 


cloud 


His fame to make it theirs : 


Not of war only, but detractions rude, 




Guided by faith and matchless fortitude. 


And has his sword and spoils ungirt, 


To peace and truth thy glorious way hast 


To lay them at the public's skirt. 


ploughed. 


So when the falcon high 


And on the neck of crowned fortune proud 


Palls heavy from the sky. 


Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pur- 




sued. 


She, having killed, no more does search 


While Darwen stream with blood of Scots im- 


But on the next green bough to perch 


brued. 


Where, when he first does lure, 


And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, 


The falconer has her sure. 


And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much re- 




mains 


What may not then our isle presume, 


To conquer still ; peace hath her victories 


While victory his crest does plume ? 


No less renowned than war. New foes arise 


What may not others fear 


Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains : 


If thus he crowns each year 1 


Help us to save free conscience from the paw 




Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw. 


As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul ; 




To Italy an Hannibal ; 


WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY. 


And to all states not free 


Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in arms. 


Shall climacteric be. 


Whose ehanee on these defenceless doors may 


The Pict no shelter now shall find 


seize. 
If deed of honor did thee ever please, 


Within his parti-colored mind ; 


Guard them, and him within protect from 


But from this valor sad 


harms. 


Shrink underneath the plaid. 


He can requite thee, for he knows the charms 




That call fame on such gentle acts as these, 


Happy, if in the tufted brake 


And he can spread thy name o'er lands and 


The English hunter him mistake. 


seas, 


Nor lay his hounds in near 


Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms. 


The Caledonian deer. • 


Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower : 




The great Emathian Conqueror bid spare 


But thou, the war's and fortune's son. 


The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower 


March indefatigably on ; 


Went to the ground : and the repeated air 


And, for the last effect, 


Of sad Electra's poet had the power 


Still keep the sword erect ! 


To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare. 



WHEN BANNERS ARE WAVING. 



373 



TO CYRIAC SKINNER. 

Cyeiac, this three years day these eyes, tho' clear 
To outward view of blemish or of spot, 
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot ; 
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 

Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, 
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not 
Against heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 
Of heart or hope ; but still bear up and steer 

Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask ? 
The conscience, friend, t' have lost them over- 
plied 

In liberty's defence, my noble task. 
Of which all Europe rings from side to side. 

This thought might lead me through the world's 
vain mask, 
Content though blind, had I no better guide. 

John Milton. 



tolicn Banners are toatjing. 

When banners are waving, 

And lances a-pushing ; 
When captains are shouting, 

And war-horses rushing ; 
When cannon are roaring, 

And hot bullets flying. 
He that would honor win, 

Must not fear dying. 

Though shafts fly so thick 

That it seems to be snowing ; 
Though streamlets with blood 

More than water are flowing ; 
Though with sabre and bullet 

Our bravest are dying, 
We speak of revenge, but 

We ne'er speak of flying. 

Come, stand to it, heroes ! 

The heathen are coming ; 
Horsemen are round the walls, 

Riding and running ; 
Maidens and matrons all 

Arm ! arm ! are crying. 
From petards the wildfire 's 

Plashing and flying. 



The trumpets from turrets high 

Loudly are braying ; 
The steeds for the onset 

Are snorting and neighing ; 
As waves in the ocean. 

The dark plumes are dancing ; 
As stars in the blue sky. 

The helmets are glancing. 

Their ladders are planting. 

Their sabres are sweeping ; 
Now swords from our sheaths 

By the thousand are leaping ; 
Like the flash of the levin 

Ere men hearken thunder, 
Swords gleam, and the steel caps 

Are cloven asunder. 

The shouting has ceased, 

And the flashing of cannon ! 
I looked from the turret 

For crescent and pennon : 
As flax touched by fire, 

As hail in the river, 
They were smote, they were fallen. 

And had melted for ever. 

Anonymous. 



^\)t (Eocenanters' !3attle-QIl)ant. 

To battle ! to battle ! 

To slaughter and strife ! 
For a sad, broken covenant 

We barter poor life. 
The great God of Judah 

Shall smite with our hand, 
And break down the idols 

That cumber the land. 

Uplift every voice 

In prayer, and in song ; 
Remember the battle 

Is not to the strong. 
Lo, the Ammonites thicken ! 

And onward they come. 
To the vain noise of trumpet. 

Of cymbal, and drum. 



374 POEIIS OF AMBITION. 


They haste to the onslaught, 


When in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of 


With hagbut and spear ; 


Zion, 


They lust for a banquet 


All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying. 


That 's deathful and dear. 




JN^ow horseman and footman 


'Twas morning; and summer's young sun from 


Sweep down the hill-side ; 


the east 


They come, like fierce Pharaohs, 


Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's 


To die in their pride ! 


breast ; 




On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shining 


See, long plume and pennon 


dew 


Stream gay in the air ! 


Glistened there 'mong the heath-bells and moun- 


They are given us for slaughter. 


tain flowers blue. 


Shall God's people spare t 




Nay, nay; lop them off — 


And far up in heaven, near the white sunny 


Friend, father, and son ; 


cloud. 


All earth is athirst till 


The song of the lark was melodious and loud ; 


The good work be done. 


And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened and 




de6p. 


Brace tight every buckler. 


Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of 


And lift high the sword ! 


sheep. 


For biting must blades be 




That fight for the Lord. 


And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music and 


Remember, remember, 


gladness — 


How saints' blood was shed. 


The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and 


As free as the rain, and 


redness ; 


Homes desolate made ! 


Its daughters were happy to hail the returning, 




And drink the delight of July's sweet morning. 


Among them ! — among them ! 




Unburied bones cry: 


But, oh ! there were hearts cherished far other 


Avenge us, — or, like us. 


feelings, 


Faith's true martyrs die ! 


Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings ; 


Hew, hew down the spoilers ! 


Who drank from the scenery of beauty but sor- 


Slay on, and spare none ; 


row. 


Then shout forth in gladness. 


For they knew that their blood would bedew it to- 


Heaven's battle is won ! 


morrow. 


William Mothebwell. 






'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron 




were lying 




Concealed 'mong the mist where the heath-fowl 


®l)e Camcronian's Jlreom. 


was crying ; 


In a dream of the night I was wafted away 


For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were 


To the muirland of mist, where the martyrs lay ; 


hovering, 


Where Cameron's sword and his bible are seen. 


And their bridle-reins rung through the thin misty 


Engraved on the stone where the* heather grows 


covering. 


green. 






Their faces grew pale, and their swords were un- 


'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood 


sheathed. 


When the minister's home was the mountain and 


But the vengeance that darkened their brow was 


wood ; 


unbreathed ; 



THE BONNETS OF BONNIE DUNDEE. 



375 



With eyes turned to heaven in calm resignation, 
They sang their last song to the God of salva- 
tion. 

The hills with the deep mournful music were ring- 
ing, 
The curlew and plover in concert were singing ; 
But the melody died 'mid derision and laughter, 
As the host of ungodly rushed on to the slaughter. 

Though in mist and in darkness and fire they 
were shrouded, 

Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and un- 
clouded ; 

Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, firm and un- 
bending. 

They stood like the rock which the thunder is 
rending. 

The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were 
gleaming. 

The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was 
streaming. 

The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was roll- 
ing, 

When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty 
were falling. 

When the righteous had fallen, and the combat 
was ended, 

A chariot of fire through the dark cloud de- 
scended ; 

Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness, 

And its burning wheels turned upon axles of 
brightness. 

A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining, 
All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining. 
And the souls that came forth out of great tribu- 
lation. 
Have mounted the chariots and steeds of salva- 
tion. 

On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding. 
Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are 

riding — 
Glide swiftly, bright spirits; the prize is before 

ye— 

A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory! 

James Hyslop. 



®l)e Sonnets of Sonnie JDunbee. 

To the lords of convention 'twas Claverhouse who 

spoke, 
" Ere the king's crown shall fall, there are crowns 

to be broke ; 
So let each cavalier who loves honor and me 
Come follow the bonnets of bonnie Dundee ! " 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can ; 
Come, saddle your Jiorses, and call up your men ; 
Come open the Westport and let us gang free, 
And iVs room for the bonnets of ionnie Dundee ! 

Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, 

The bells are rung backward, the drums they are 
beat ; 

But the provost, douce man, said, "Just e'en let 
him be. 

The gude toun is well quit of that deil of Dun- 
dee!" 

As he rode doun the sanctified bends of the Bow, 

Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow ; 

But the young plants of grace they looked cowthie 
and slee, 

Thinking, Luck to thy bonnet, thou bonnie Dun- 
dee! 

With sour-featured whigs the grass-market was 
thranged. 

As if half the west had set tryst to be hanged ; 

There was spite in each look, there was fear in 
each ee. 

As they watched for the bonnets of bonnie Dun- 
dee. 

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had 

spears, 
And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers ; 
But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway 

was free 
At the toss of the bonnet of bonnie Dundee. 

He spurred to the foot of the proud castle rock. 

And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke : 

" Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words 

or three. 
For the love of the bonnet of bonnie Dundee." 



376 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



The Gordon demands of him which way he goes. 
" Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose ! 
Your grace in short space shall hear tidings of me, 
Or that low lies the bonnet of bonnie Dundee. 

" There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond 
Forth ; 

If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in 
the north ; 

There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times 
three 

Will cry ' Hoigh ! ' for the bonnet of bonnie Dun- 
dee. 

" There 's brass on the target of barkened bull- 
hide. 

There's steel in the scabbard that dangles be- 
side ; 

The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash 
free, 

At a toss of the bonnet of bonnie Dundee. 

" Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks, 
Ere I own an usurper I'll couch with the fox ; 
And tremble, false whigs, in the midst of your 

glee, 
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me." 

He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were 

blown, 
The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode 

on. 
Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lea 
Died away the wild war-notes of bonnie Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can ; 
Come saddle the horses, and call up the men ; 
Come open your doors and let me gae free. 
For ifs up with the bonnets of bonnie Dundee ! 
Sir Walter Scott. 



£ocl)abcr no more. 

Farewell to Lochaber ! and farewell^ my Jean, 
Where heartsome with thee I hae mony day been ! 
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more. 
We'll maybe return to Lochaber nO more ! 
These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear. 
And no for the dangers attending on war. 



Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, 
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. 

Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind. 
They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my 

mind; 
Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar. 
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. 
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained ; 
By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained ; 
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, 
And I must deserve it before I can crave. 

Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse ; 
Since honor commands me, how can I refuse ? 
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, 
And without thy favor I'd better not be. 
I gae then, my lass, to win honor and fame, 
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, 
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, 
And then I'U leave thee and Lochaber no more. 

Allan Kamsat. 



€l)arlie is mg ?iDarIing, 

'TwAS on a Monday morning 

Richt early in the year. 
That Charlie cam' to our toun, 

The young ehevaiier. 

And Charlie he 's my darling, 
My darling, my darling ; 

Charlie he's my darling, 
The young chevalier ! 

As he was walking up the street. 

The city for to view. 
Oh, there he spied a bonny lass 

The window looking through. 

Say licht 's he jumped up the stair, 

And tirled at the pin ; 
And wha sae ready as hersel' 

To let the laddie in f 

He set his Jenny on his knee, 
All in his Highland dress ; 

For brawly weel he kenned the way 
To please a bonnie lass. 



HERE 'S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT'S AWA. 377 


It's up on yon heathery mountain, 


Success to Kenmure's band, Willie ! 


And down yon scraggy glen, 


Success to Kenmure's band ; 


We daurna gang a-milking, 


There's no a heart that fears a whig 


For Charlie and his men. 


That rides by Kenmure's hand. 


And Charlie he 's my darling, 


Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie ! 


My darling, my darling ; 


Here's Kenmure's health in wine ; 


Charlie he 's my darling. 


There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude. 


The young chevalier ! 


Nor yet o' Gordon's line. 


Anonymous. 


J 




Oh, Kenmure's lads are men, Willie ! 




Oh, Kenmure's lads are men ; 


aije (Sollant (Sroljoins. 


Their hearts and swords are metal true — 




And that their faes shall ken. 


To wear the blue I think it best, 




Of a' the colors that I see ; 


They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie ! 


And I'll wear it for the gallant Grahams 


They'll live or die wi' fame ; 


That are banished frae their ain countrie. 


But soon, wi' sounding victorie, 




May Kenmure's lord come hame. 


I'll crown them east, I'll crown them west. 




The bravest lads that e'er I saw ; 


Here's him that's far awa, Willie ! 


They bore the gree in free fighting, 


Here's him that's far awa ; 


And ne'er were slack their swords to draw. 


And here's the flower that I love best — 




The rose that's like the snaw. 


They wan the day wi' Wallace wight ; 


Egbert Bukns. 


They were the lords o' the south countrie ; 




Cheer up your hearts, brave cavaliers. 




Till the gallant Grahams come o'er .the sea. 


j^crc's a f caltb to ®l)cin tljat's ^t»a. 


At the Gouk head, where their camp was set, 




They rade the white horse and the gray. 


Here's a health to them that's awa, 




And here's to them that's awa ; 


A' glancing in their plated armor, 




As the gowd shines in a summer's day. 


And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause. 


May never guid luck be their fa' ! 


But woe to Hacket, and Strachan baith. 


It's guid to be merry and wise. 


And ever an ill death may they die. 


It's guid to be honest and true. 


For they betrayed the gallant Grahams, 


It's guid to support Caledonia's cause. 


That aye were true to majesty. 


And bide by the buif and the blue. 


Now fare ye weel, sweet Ennerdale, 


Here's a health to them that's awa. 


Baith kith and kin that I could name ; 


And here's to them that's awa ; 


Oh, I would sell my silken snood 


Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan, 


To see the gallant Grahams come hame. 


Altho' that his band be sma'. 


Anontmotjs. 


May Liberty meet wi' success ! 




May Prudence protect her fra evil ! 




May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, 


Kettmurc's QDn anb ^ma. 


And wander their way to the devil ! 


Oh, Kenmure's on and awa, Willie ! 


Here's a health to them that's awa. 


Oh, Kenmure's on and awa ! 


And here's to them that's awa ; 


And Kenmtire's lord 's the bravest lord 


Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie. 


That ever Galloway saw. 


That lives at the lug o' the law ! 



378 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



Here's freedom to him that wad read, 
Here's freedom to him that wad write ! 

There's nane ever feared that the truth should be 
heard 
But they wham the truth wad indite. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

And here's to them that's awa ; 
Here's Maitland and Wycombe, and wlia does na 
like 'em 

We'll build in a hole o' the wa'. 
Here's timmer that's red at the heart. 

Here's fruit that's sound at the core ! 
May he that would turn the buff and blue coat 

Be turned to the back o' the door. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

And here's to them that's awa ; 
Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd, 

Though bred amang mountains o' snaw ! 
Here's friends on baith sides o' the Forth, 

And friends on baith sides o' the Tweed; 
And wha would betray old Albion's rights. 

May they never eat of her bread ! 

KoBEKT Burns. 



Co£l)krs toonting. 

Wizard. Lochiel. 

WIZARD. 

Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day 
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! 
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight. 
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and 

crown ; 
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! 
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain. 
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. 
But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of 

war 
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 
'Tis thine, oh GlenuUin ! whose bride shall await. 
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, aU night at the 

gate. 
A steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; 
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 



Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led — 
Oh weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead ; 
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, 
Culloden that reeks with the blood of the brave. 



LOCHIEL. 



Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer ! 
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, 
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 



Ha ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ? 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be 

torn! 
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth 
From his home in the dark rolling clouds of the 

north? 
Lo ! the death-shot of f oemen outspeeding, he rode 
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; 
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! 
Ah ! home let him speed, for the spoiler is nigh. 
Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to the 

blast 
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ? 
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven 
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of 

heaven. 
crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, 
Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, 
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to 

burn ; 
Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! 
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it 

stood. 
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing 

brood. 

LOCHIEL. 

False wizard, avaunt ! I have marshalled my clan ; 
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! 
They are true to the last of their blood and their 

breath. 
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. 
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! 
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the 

rock! 
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, 
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; 



BORDER BALLAD. 



379 



When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 
Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud. 
All plaided and plumed in thek tartan array 

WIZARD. 

Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day ; 

For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal. 

But man cannot cover what God would re- 
veal ; 

'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore. 

And coming events cast their shadows before. 

I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring 

With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive 
king. 

Lo ! anointed by heaven with the vials of wrath. 

Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! 

Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my 
sight : 

Rise, rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! 

'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the 
moors ; 

CuUoden is lost, and my country deplores. 

But where is the iron-bound prisoner ? where ? 

For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 

Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, for- 
lorn. 

Like a limb from his country east blfeeding and 
torn ? 

Ah no ! for a darker departure is near ; 

The war-drum is mufded and black is the bier ; 

His death-bell is tolling. Oh ! mercy, dispel 

Ton sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! 

Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, 

And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. 

Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet. 

Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to 
beat. 

With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale 



Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the 

tale! 
For never shall Albin, a destiny meet 
So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. 
Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in 

their gore. 
Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, 
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, 
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains. 



Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low. 

With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! 

And, leaving in battle no blot on his name. 

Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of 

fame. 

Thomas Campbell. 



jBorber JBallab. 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale ! 

Why the de'il dinna ye march forward in order? 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale ! 
All the Blue Bonnets are over the Border ! 

Many a banner spread 

Flutters above your head. 
Many a crest that is famous in story ! — 

Mount and make ready, then, 

Sons of the mountain glen, 
Fight for the queen and our old Scottish glory ! 

Come from the hills where your hirsels are graz- 
ing; 
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; 
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing ; 
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. 
Trumpets are sounding ; 
War-steeds are bounding ; 
Stand to your arms, and march in good order, 
England shall many a day 
Tell of the bloody fray. 
When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. 

Sib Walter Soott. 



pbroci] of tUonuil (]IJ[)ti. 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Pibroch of Donuil, 
Wake thy wild voice anew. 

Summon Clan-Conuil ! 
Come away, come away — 

Hark to the summons ! 
Come in your war array, 

Gentles and commons. 

Come from deep glen, and 
From mountain so rocky ; 

The war-pipe and pennon 
Are at Inverlochy. 



380 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



Come every hill-plaid, and 

True heart that wears one ; 
Come every steel blade, and 

Strong hand that bears one. 

Leave untended the herd, 

The flock without shelter ; 
Leave the corpse uninterred. 

The bride at the altar ; 
Leave the deer, leave the steer, 

Leave nets and barges : 
Come with your fighting gear, 

Broadswords and targes. 

Come as the winds come when 

Forests are rended ; 
Come as the waves come when 

Navies are stranded ! 
Faster come, faster come, 

Faster and faster — 
Chief, vassal, page, and groom, 

Tenant and master ! 

Fast they come, fast they come — 

See how they gather ! 
Wide waves the eagle plume, 

Blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids, draw your blades. 

Forward each man set ! 
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Kneel for the onset ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



iXlac's iHe for l^xixiu €l)cirUe. 

A WEE bird came to our ha' door ; 

He warbled sweet and clearly ; 
And aye the o'ercome o' his sang 

Was " Wae's me for Prince Charlie ! " 
Oh ! when I heard the bonny, bonny bird, 

The tears came drapping rarely ; 
I took my bonnet aff my head. 

For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie, 

Quoth I : " My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, 

Is that a tale ye borrow ? 
Or is 't some words ye've learned by rote. 

Or a lilt o' dool and sorrow ? " 



" Oh ! no, no, no ! " the wee bird sang, 
" I've flown sin' morning early ; 

But sic a day o' wind and rain ! — 
Oh ! wae's me for Prince Charlie ! 

"On hills that are by right his ain 

He roams a lonely stranger ; 
On ilka hand he's pressed by want, 

On ilka side by danger. 
Yestreen I met him in the glen, 

My heart near bursted fairly ; 
For sadly changed indeed was he — 

Oh ! wae's me for Prince Charlie ! 

" Dark night came on ; the tempest howled 

Out owre the hills and valleys ; 
And where was't that your prince lay down, 

Whose hame should be a palace ? 
He rowed him in a Highland plaid. 

Which covered him but sparely. 
And slept beneath a bush o' broom — 

Oh ! wae's me for Prince Charlie ! " 

But now the bird saw some red coats, 

And he shook his wings wi' anger : 
" Oh ! this is no a land for me — 

I'll tarry here nae langer." 
A while he hovered on the wing, 

Ere he departed fairly ; 
But weel I mind the farewell strain, 

'Twas " Wae's me for Prince Charlie ! " 

WiiLiAM Glen. 



^amt, ^atne, ^axat ! 

Hame, hame, hame ! oh hame I fain would be ! 
Oh hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 
When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on 

the tree. 
The lark shall sing me hame to my ain countrie. 
Hame, hame, havie ! oil hame I fain would he ! 
Oh hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 

The green leaf o' loyaltie's beginning now to fa ' ; 
The bonnie white rose, it is withering an' a' ; 
But we'll water it wi' the bluid of usurping tyrannic, 
And fresh it shall blaw in my ain countrie ! 
Hame, hame, hame ! oh hame I fain would he ! 
Oh hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 



THE BROADSWORDS OF SCOTLAND. 381 


Oh there's noeht now Irae ruin my countrie can 




save, 


®l)e BroabstDorbs of Scotlanir. 


But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave, 




That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie 


Now there's peace on the shore, now there's calm 


May rise again and tight for their ain coun- 


on the sea, 


trie. 


Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us 


Eame, hame, Tiame ! oh Jiame I fain would be I 


free, 


Oh hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 


Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dun- 

rlpp 


The great now are gone wha attempted to save, 


Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland ! 


The green grass is growing abune their grave ; 


And oh, the old Scottish broadswords ! 


Yet the sun through the mist seems to promise to 




me, 


Old Sir Ralph Abercromby, the good and the 


" I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie." 


brave — 


Hame, hame, hame ! oh hame I fain would he ! 


Let him flee from our board, let him sleep with 


Oh hame, hame, hame ! to my ain countrie ! 


the slave. 




Whose libation comes slow while we honor his 


Allan CuionNGHAii. 






grave. 




Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland ! 




And oh, the old Scottish broadswords ! 


ins ^iw QTonntric. 






Though he died not, like him, amid victory's roar, 


The sun rises bright in France, 


Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud on 


And fair sets he ; 


the shore. 


But he has tint the blythe blink he had 


Not the less we remember the spirit of Moore. 


In my ain countrie. 


Oh, the broadsivords of old Scotland ! 


Oh gladness comes to many. 


And oh, the old Scottish broadswords ! 


But sorrow comes to me. 




As I look o'er the wide ocean 


Yea, a place with the faUen the living shall claim ; 


To my ain countrie. 


We'll entwine in one wreath every glorious name. 




The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the Gra- 


Oh it's nae my ain ruin 


ham, 


That saddens aye my e'e. 


All the broadsivords of old Scotland ! 


But the love I left in Galloway, 


And oh, the old Scottish broadswords ! 


Wi' bonnie bairnies three. 




My hamely hearth burnt bonnie. 


Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves of 


An' smiled my fair Marie : 


the Forth, 


I've left my heart behind me 


Count the stars in the clear, cloudless heaven of 


In my ain countrie. 


the north ; 




Then go blazon their numbers, their names, and 


The bud comes back to summer, 


their worth, 


And the blossom to the bee ; 


All the broadswords of old Scotland I 


But I'll win back — oh never. 


And oh, the old Scottish broadswo7-ds ! 


To my ain countrie. 




I'm leal to the high heaven, 


The highest in splendor, the humblest in place. 


Which will be leal to me. 


Stand united in glory, as kindred in race. 


An there I'll meet ye a' sune 


For the private is brother in blood to his Grace. 


Frae my ain countrie. 


Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland ! 


Allan Ciinningham. 


And oh, the old Scottish broadswords ! 



383 



P0E3IS OF AMBITION. 



Then sacred to each and to all let it be, 

Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us 

free, 
Eight descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dun- 
dee. 

Oh, the. broadswords of old Scotland ! 
And oh, the old Scottish hroadswords ! 

John Gibson Lockhabt. 



Thrice at the huts of Fontenoy the English col- 
umn failed. 

And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch in 
vain assailed ; 

For town and slope were fiUed with fort and flank- 
ing battery. 

And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch 
auxiliary. 

As vainly through De Barri's wood the British 
soldiers burst. 

The French artillery drove them back diminished 
and dispersed. 

The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anx- 
ious eye. 

And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance 
to try. 

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals 
ride ! 

And mustering came his chosen troops like clouds 
at eventide. 

Six thousand English veterans in stately column 

tread ; 
Their cannon blaze in front and flank. Lord Hay 

is at their head. 
Steady they step adown the slopes, steady they 

mount the hill. 
Steady they load, steady they fire, moving right 

onward still. 
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a 

furnace-blast. 
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bul- 
lets showering fast ; 
And on the open plain above they rose and kept 

their course. 
With ready fire and grim resolve that mocked at 

hostile force. 



Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow 
their ranks. 

They break as breaks the Zuyder Zee through Hol- 
land's ocean-banks. 

More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs 
rush round ; 

As stubble to the lava-tide, French squadrons 
strew the ground ; 

Bombshell and grape and round-shot tore, still on 
they marched and fired ; 

Fast from each volley grenadier and voltigeur re- 
tired. 

"Push on my household cavalry," King Louis 
madly cried. 

To death they rush, but rude their shock, not un- 
avenged they died. 

On through the camp the column trod — Kling 
Louis turned his rein. 

" Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed ; " the Irish 
troops remain." 

And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a 
Waterloo, 

Had not these exiles ready been, fresh, vehement, 
and true. 

" Lord Clare," he said, " you have your wish ; there 

are your Saxon foes ! " 
The Marshal almost smiles to see how furiously he 

goes. 
How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont 

to be so gay ! 
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their 

hearts to-day : 
The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith 'twas 

writ could dry ; 
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their 

women's parting cry ; 
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their 

country overthrown — 
Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on 

him alone. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere. 
Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud 

exUes were. 

O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he 

commands : 
"Fix bayonets — charge!" Like mountain-storm 

rush on those fiery bands. 



THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS. 



383 



Tliin is the English column now, and faint their 

volleys grow, 
Yet mustering all the strength they have, they 

make a gallant show. 
They dress their ranks upon the hiU, to face that 

battle-wind ! 
Their bayonets the breakers' foam, like rocks the 

men behind ! 
One volley crashes from their line, when through 

the surging smoke. 
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the 

headlong Irish broke. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce 

huzza ! 
" Revenge ! remember Limerick ! dash down the 

Sacsanagh ! " 

Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hun- 
ger's pang. 

Right up against the English line the Irish exiles 
sprang ; 

Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns 
are filled with gore ; 

Through scattered ranks and severed files and 
trampled flags they tore. 

The English strove with desperate strength, paused, 
rallied, scattered, fled ; 

The green hillside is matted close with dying and 
with dead. 

Across the plain and far away passed on that hide- 
ous wrack. 

While cavalier and f antassin dash in upon their track. 

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun. 

With bloody plumes the Irish stand — the field is 

fought and won I 

Thomas Osborne Davis. 



Song of t\)c Cornisl} illen. 

A GOOD sword and a trusty hand ! 

A merry heart and true ! 
King James's men shall understand 

What Cornish lads can do. 

And have they fixed the where and when 1 

And shall Trelawny die ? 
Here's twenty thousand Cornish men 

Will know the reason why ! 



Outspake their captain, brave and bold, 

A merry wight was he : 
" If London Tower were Michael's hold. 

We'll set Trelawny free ! 

" We'U cross the Tamar land to land, 

The Severn is no stay — 
With one and all, and hand-in-hand, 

And who shall bid us nay ? 

" And when we come to London wall, — 

A pleasant sight to view, — 
Come forth ! come forth, ye cowards all. 

To better men than you ! 

"Trelawny he's in keep and hold, 

Trelawny he may die ; 
But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold. 

Will know the reason why ! " 

Egbert Stephen Hawker. 



0ong. 

As by the shore, at break of day, 
A vanquished chief expiring lay. 
Upon the sands, with broken sword. 

He traced his farewell to the free ; 
And there the last unfinished word 

He dying wrote, was " Liberty ! " 

At night a sea-bird shrieked the knell 
Of him who thus for freedom fell ; 
The words he wrote, ere evening came. 

Were covered by the sounding sea ; 
So pass away the cause and name 

Of him who dies for liberty ! 

Thomas Moore. 



2[l)e jparp tl^at ante tijrougl) dTara's ipalls. 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 

The soul of music shed. 
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls 

As if that soul were fled. 
So sleeps the pride of former days. 

So glory's thriU is o'er. 
And hearts that once beat high for praise, 

Now feel that pulse no more. 



384 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



No more to chiefs and ladies bright 

The harp of Tara swells ; 
The chord alone that breaks at night 

Its tale of ruin tells. 
Thus freedom now so seldom wakes, 

The only throb she gives 
Is when some heart indignant breaks 

To show that still she lives. 

Thomas Mooee. 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 
By all their country's wishes blessed ! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallowed mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung ; 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray. 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; 
And Freedom shall awhile repair, 
To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 

William Collins. 



|)cace to \\)t Sinmbercrs. 

Peace to the slumberers ! 

They lie on the battle-plain, 
With no shroud to cover them ; 

The dew and the summer rain 
And all that sweep over them. 

Peace to the slumberers ! 

Vain was their bravery ! 

The fallen oak lies where it lay 
Across the wintry river ; 

But brave hearts, once swept away, ■ 
Are gone, alas ! forever. 

Vain was their bravery ! 

Woe to the conqueror ! 

Our limbs shall lie as cold as theirs 
Of whom his sword bereft us. 

Ere we forget the deep arrears 

Of vengeance they have left us ! 

Woe to the conqueror ! 

Thomas Mookb. 



tJctcran anb Hccnxit. 

He filled the crystal goblet 

With golden-beaded wine : 
" Come, comrades, now, I bid ye — 

' To the true love of mine ! ' 

" Her forehead's pure and holy, 

Her hair is tangled gold. 
Her heart to me so tender, 

To others' love is cold. 

" So drain your glasses empty 

And fill me another yet ; 
Two glasses at least for the dearest 

And sweetest girl, Lisette." 

Up rose a grizzled sergeant — 

" My true love I give thee. 
Three true loves blent in one love, 

A soldier's trinity. 

" Here's to the flag we follow. 
Here's to the land we serve. 

And here's to holy honor 
That doth the two preserve." 

Then rose they up around him, 
And raised their eyes above. 

And drank in solemn silence 
Unto the sergeant's love. 

Edward Wentwohth Hazewell. 



®o5 gatie l[\z tving. 

God save our gracious king ! 
Long live our noble king ! 

God save the king ! 
Send him victorious, 
Happy and glorious. 
Long to reign over us — 

God save the king ! 

Lord our God, arise ! 
Scatter his enemies. 

And make them fall ; 
Confound their politics. 
Frustrate their knavish tricks ; 
On him our hopes we fix, 

God save us all ! 



HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS. 



385 



Thy choicest gifts in store 
On him be pleased to pour ; 

Long may he reign. 
May he defend our laws, 
And ever give us cause, 
To sing with heart and voice - 

God save the king ! 



Anontmous. 



0l)on ban bocljt. 

Oh ! the French are on the say. 

Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
The French are on the say, 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

Oh ! the French are in the bay ; 

They'll be here without delay. 

And the Orange will decay, 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

Oh ! the French are in the bevy, 
They'll he here hy break of day, 
And the Orange will decay. 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

And where will they have their camp 1 

Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
Where will they have their camp ? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
On the Currach of Kildare ; 
The boys they will be there 
"With their pikes in good repair, 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
To the Currach of Kildare 
The boys they will repair. 
And Lord Edward will be there. 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

Then what will the yeomen do 1 

Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
What will the yeomen do ? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
What should the yeomen do, 
But throw off the red and blue. 
And swear that they'll be true 
To the Shan Van Vocht ? 
What should the yeomen do. 
But throiv off the red and blue. 
And swear that they'll be true 
To the Shan Van Vocht? 



27 



And what color will they wear % 

Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
What color will they wear % 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
What color should be seen. 
Where our fathers' homes have been. 
But our own immortal green % 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
Wliat color should be seen, 
Wliere our fathers' homes have been. 
But our own immortal green ? 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

And will Ireland then be free ? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
Will Ireland then be free ? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
Yes ! Ireland shall be free, 
From the centre to the sea ; 
Then hurrah for liberty ! 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
Yes ! Ireland shall be free. 
From the centre to the sea ; 
Then hurrah for liberty ! 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

Anonymous. 



f oro QTlj^s brougl)! tlie (Soob 55'etD0 from 
<®l)ent to ^\%. 

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris and he : 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ; 

" Good speed ! " cried the watch as the gate-bolts 

undrew, 
" Speed ! " echoed the wall to us galloping through. 
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest. 
And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

Not a word to each other ; we kept the great 

pace — 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our 

place ; 
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, 
Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique 

right, 
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit. 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 



386 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



'Twas a moonset at starting; but while we drew 

near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned 

clear ; 
At Boom a great yellow star came out to see ; 
At DiifEeld 'twas morning as plain as could be ; 
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the 

half-chime — 
So Joris broke silence with " Yet there is time ! " 

At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun, 
And against him the cattle stood black every one, 
To stare through the mist at us galloping past ; 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, 
With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray ; 

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear 

bent back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his 

track ; 
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance 
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance ; 
And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and 

anon 
His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. 

By Hasselt Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris, " Stay 
spur ! 

Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in 
her; 

We'll remember at Aix" — for one heard the quick 
wheeze 

Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and stagger- 
ing knees. 

And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank. 

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; 
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh ; 
'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright . stubble 

like chaff ; 
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white. 
And " Gallop," gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight ! " 

" How they'll greet us ! " — and all in a moment his 

roan 
RoUed neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; 



And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her 

fate, 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 

Then I east loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall. 
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, 
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, 
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without 

peer — 
Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise, 

bad or good, 
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 

And all I remember is friends flocking round. 
As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the 

ground ; 
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine. 
As I poured down his throat our last measure of 

wine, 
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 
Was no more than his due who brought good news 

fiom Ghent. 

KOBBBT BROWHINO. 



A LEGEND OF ALTENAHR. 

So the foemen have fired the gate, men of mine ; 

And the water is spent and gone ? 
Then bring me a cup of the red Ahr-wine : 

I never shall drink but this one. 

And reach me my harness, and saddle my horse. 
And lead him me round to the door : 

He must take such a leap to-night perforce. 
As horse never took before. 

I have fought my fight, I have lived my life, 

I have drunk my share of wine ; 
From Trier to Coin there was never a knight 

Led a merrier life than mine. 

1 have lived by the saddle for years twoscore ; 

And if I must die on tree. 
Then the old saddle tree, which has borne me of yore. 

Is the properest timber for me. 



TME LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND. 



So now to show bishop, and burgher, and priest, 

How the Altenahr hawk can die : 
If they smoke the old falcon out of his nest, 

He must take to his wings and fly. 

He harnessed himself by the clear moonshine, 
And he mounted his horse at the door ; 

And he drained such a cup of the red Ahr-wine, 
As man never drained before. 

He spurred the old horse, and he held him tight, 
And he leaped him out over the wall ; 

Out over the cliff, out into the night. 
Three hundred feet of fall. 

They found him next morning below in the glen. 
With never a bone in him whole — 

A mass or a prayer, now, good gentlemen. 
For such a bold rider's soul. 

Chables Klngslet. 



JfnMan ?Dcatl)-Song. 

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the 

day. 
But glory remains when their lights fade away. 
Begin, you tormentors ! your threats are in vain. 
For the son of Alknomook will never complain. 

Remember the arrows he shot fi-om his bow ; 
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low ! 
Why so slow ? do you wait tiU I shrink from the 

pain? 
No ! the son of Alknomook shaU never complain. 

Remember the wood where in ambush we lay, 
And the scalps which we bore from your nation 



Now the flame rises fast, you exult in my pain ; 
But the son of Alknomook can never complain. 

I go to the land where my father is gone ; 

His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son. 

Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from 
pain ; 

And thy son, Alknomook ! has scorned to com- 
plain. 

Anne Hunter. 



(iri)e ConMng of ti)c plgrim ifotljers 
in Nero ©nglonir. 

" Look now abroad — another race has filled 

Those populous borders — wide the wood recedes, 
And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are tilled ; 
The land is full of harvests and green meads." 

Bktant. 
The breaking waves dashed high. 

On a stern and rock-bound coast. 
And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches tossed ; 

And the heavy night hung dark, 

The hills and waters o'er. 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came ; 
Not with the roU of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear ; 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang. 

And the stars heard, and the sea ; 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free. 

The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam : 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared — 

This was their welcome home. 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that pilgrim band : 
Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land ? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow, serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar? 

Bright jewels of the mine? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod ; 
They have left unstained what there they found - 

Freedom to worship God. 

Felicia Hbmans. 



The Pilgrim Fathers, where are they? 

The waves that brought them o'er 
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray, 

As they break along the shore — 
Still roll in the bay as they rolled that day 

When the Mayflower moored below. 
When the sea around was black with storms. 

And white the shore with snow. 

The mists that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep 

Still brood upon the tide ; 
And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, 

To stay its waves of pride : 
But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale 

When the heavens looked dark, is gone ; 
As an angel's wing through an opening cloud 

Is seen, and then withdrawn. 

The pilgrim exile — sainted name ! 

The hill, whose icy brow 
Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, 

In the morning's flame burns now. 
And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night 

On the hill-side and the sea, 
StiU lies where he laid his houseless head ; 

But the pilgrim, where is he ? 

The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest : 

When Summer is throned on high. 
And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, 

Go, stand on the hill where they lie : 
The earliest ray of the golden day 

On the hallowed spot is cast ; 
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, 

Looks kindly on that spot last. ' 

The pilgrim spirit has not fled : 

It walks in noon's broad light ; 
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead. 

With the holy stars by night : 



It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, 
And shall guard this ice-bound shore. 

Till the waves of the bay where the Mayflower lay 
Shall foam and freeze no more. 

John Pierpont. 



®n tl)e |)rosj]cct of |)lanting ^rts anb 
Cearning in America. 

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime 

Barren of every glorious theme. 
In distant lands now waits a better time, 

Producing subjects worthy fame ; 

In happy climes, where from the genial sun 
And virgin earth such scenes ensue, 

The force of art by nature seems outdone. 
And fancied beauties by the true ; 

In happy climes the seat of innocence, 
Where nature guides and virtue rules. 

Where men shall not impose, for truth and sense, 
The pedantry of courts and schools. 

There shall be sung another golden age, 

The rise of empire and of arts. 
The good and great uprising epic rage, 

The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay ; 

Such as she bred when fresh and young. 
When heavenly flame did animate her clay, 

By future poets shaU be sung. 

Westward the course of empire takes its way ; 

The four first acts already past, 
A fifth shall close the drama with the day ; 

Time's noblest offspring is the last. 

George Bbbkblet. 



SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MONU- 
MENT, APRIL 19, 1836. 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood. 
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled. 

Here once the embattled farmers stood. 
And fired the shot heard round the world. 



CARMEN BELLICOSUM. 389 


The foe long since in silence slept ; 


Now like smiths at their forges 


Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; 


Worked the red St. George's 


And Time the ruined bridge has swept 


Cannoniers ; 


Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 


And the " villainous saltpetre " 




Rung a fierce, discordant metre 


On this green bank, by this soft stream, 


Round their ears ; 


We set to-day a votive stone, 


As the swift 


That memory may their deed redeem, 


Storm-drift, 


When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 


With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' 




clangor 


Spirit, that made those heroes dare 


On our flanks. 


To die, or leave their children free, 


Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fash- 


Bid Time and Nature gently spare 


ioned fire 


The shaft we raise to them and thee. 


Through the ranks ! 


Kalph Waldo Emebson. 






Then the old-fashioned colonel 




Galloped through the white infernal 




Powder-cloud ; 


Olartncn BcUicosum. 


And his broad sword was swinging. 




And his brazen throat was ringing 


In their ragged regimentals 


Trumpet loud. 


Stood the old continentals, 


Then the blue 


Yielding not. 


Bullets flew, 


When the grenadiers were lunging, 


And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the 


And like hail fell the plunging 


leaden 


Cannon-shot ; 


Rifle-breath ; 


When the files 


And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six- 


Of the isles, 


pounder, 


Prom the smoky night encampment, bore the ban- 


Hurling death I 


ner of the rampant 


Gut Humphrey MoMaster. 


Unicorn, 




And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll 




of the drummer. 

Through the morn ! 


Song of MaxxoxCs itten. 




Our band is few, but true and tried. 


Then with eyes to the front all, 


Our leader frank and bold ; 


And with guns horizontal, 


The British soldier trembles 


Stood our sires ; 


When Marion's name is told. 


And the balls whistled deadly, 


Our fortress is the good greenwood. 


And in streams flashing redly 


Our tent the cypress-tree ; 


Blazed the fires ; 


We know the forest round us. 


As the roar 


As seamen know the sea ; 


On the shore. 


We know its walls of thorny vines. 


Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green- 


Its glades of reedy grass. 


sodded acres 


Its safe and silent islands 


Of the plain ; 


Within the dark morass. 


And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gun- 




powder, 


Wo to the English soldiery 


Cracking amain ! 


That little dread us near ! 



390 



POEMS OF A3IBITI0N. 



On them shall light at midnight 

A strange and sudden fear ; 
When, waking to their tents on fire, 

They grasp their arms in vain, 
And they who stand to face us 

Are beat to earth again ; 
And they who fly in terror, deem 

A mighty host behind, 
And hear the tramp of thousands 

Upon the hollow wind. 

Then sweet the hour that brings release 

Prom danger and from toil ; 
We talk the battle over. 

And share the battle's spoil. 
The woodlands ring with laugh and shout 

As if a hunt were up, 
And woodland flowers are gathered 

To crown the soldier's cup. 
With merry songs we mock the wind 

That in the pine-top grieves, 
And slumber long and sweetly 

On beds of oaken leaves. 

Well knows the fair and friendly moon 

The band that Marion leads — 
The glitter of their rifles, 

The scampering of their steeds. 
'Tis life to guide the fiery barb 

Across the moonlight plain ; 
'Tis life to feel the night-wind 

That lifts his tossing mane. 
A moment in the British camp — 

A moment — and away ! 
Back to the pathless forest, 

Before the peep of day. 

Grave men there are by broad Santee, 

Grave men with hoary hairs ; 
Their hearts are all with Marion, 

For Marion are their prayers. 
And lovely ladies greet our band 

With kindliest welcoming. 
With smiles like those of summer, 

And tears like those of spring. 
For them we wear these trusty arms. 

And lay them down no more 
Till we have driven the Briton, 

For ever, from our shore. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



@i;i)e Star-spaniglcb JSonner. 

Oh ! say, can you see by the dawn's early light 
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last 

gleaming — 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the 

perilous fight. 
O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly 

streaming ! 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in 

air. 
Gave proof through the night that our flag was 

still there. 
Oh ! say, does that star-spangled banner yet 

wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the 

brave ? 

On that shore, dimly seen through the mists of the 

deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence 

reposes. 
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering 

steep. 
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half dis- 
closes ? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first 

beam. 
In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream ; 
'Tis the star-spangled banner ; oh, long may it 

wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the 

brave ! 

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 
That the havoc of war and the battle's con- 
fusion 

A home and a country should leave us no 
more? 
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' 
pollution. 

No refuge could save the hireling and slave 

From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the 
grave ; 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth 
wave 

O'er the land of the free and the home of the 
brave. 



TEE AMERICAN.- FLAG. 391 


Oh ! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 


Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet. 


Between their loved homes and the war's deso- 


Has dimmed the glistening bayonet. 


lation ! 


Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 


Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven- 


To where thy sky-born glories burn. 


rescued land 


And, as his springing steps advance. 


Praise the power that hath made and preserved 


Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 


us a nation. 


And when the cannon-mouthings loud 


Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just ; 


Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud. 


And this be our motto, " In God is our trust," 


And gory sabres rise and fall. 


And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall 


Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall. 


wave 


Then shall thy meteor-glances glow. 


O'er the land of the free and the home of the 


And cowering foes shall sink beneath 


brave. 


Each gallant arm that strikes below 


Fbakcis Scott Key. 


That lovely messenger of death. 




Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 


STlje ^i^ntmcan iTlag. 


Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; 




When death, careering on the gale. 


When Freedom from her mountain height 


Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail. 


Unfurled her standard to the air, 


And frighted waves rush wildly back 


She toi"e the azure robe of night. 


Before the broadside's reeling rack. 


And set the stars of glory there ; 


Each dying wanderer of the sea 


She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 


Shall look at once to heaven and thee. 


The milky baldric of the skies, 


And smile to see thy splendors fly 


And striped its pure, celestial white 


In triumph o'er his closing eye. 


With streakings of the morning light ; 




Then from his mansion in the sun ' 


Flag of the free heart's hope and home, 


She called her eagle bearer down, 


By angel hands to valor given ; 


And gave into his mighty hand 


Thy stars have lit the welkin dome. 


The symbol of her chosen land. 


And all thy hues were born in heaven. 




For ever float that standard sheet ! 


Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 


Where breathes the foe but falls before us! 


Who rear'st aloft thy regal form. 


With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 


To hear the tempest-trumpings loud. 


And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us ! 


And see the lightning lances driven, 


Joseph Eodman Drake. 


When strive the warriors of the storm, 




And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven — 




Child of the sun ! to thee 'tis given 




To guard the banner of the free. 


® itlotlier of a illi9l)t2 lace. 


To hover in tlie sulphur-smoke. 




To ward away the battle-stroke. 


MOTHER of a mighty race, 


And bid its blendings shine afar, 


Yet lovely in thy youthful grace ! 


Like rainbows on the cloud of war. 


The elder dames, thy haughty peers, 


The harbingers of victory ! 


Admire and hate thy blooming years ; 




With words of shame 


Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 


And taunts of scorn they join thy name. 


The sign of hope and triumph high. 




Wlien speaks the signal trumpet tone. 


For on thy cheeks the glow is spread 


And the long line comes gleaming on ; 


That tints thy morning hills with red ; 



393 



P0E3IS OF AMBITION. 



Thy step — the wild deer's rustling feet 
Within thy woods are not more fleet ; 

Thy hopeful eye 
Is bright as thine own sunny sky. 

Ay, let them rail — those haughty ones, 
While safe thou dwellest with thy sons ! 
They do not know how loved thou art, 
How many a fond and fearless heart 

Would rise to throw 
Its life between thee and the foe. 

They know not, in their hate and pride. 
What virtues with thy children bide — 
How true, how good, thy graceful maids 
Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades ; 

What generous men 
Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen ; 

What cordial welcomes greet the guest 
By thy lone rivers of the west ; 
How faith is kept, and truth revered, 
And man is loved, and God is feared, 

In woodland homes, 
And where the ocean border foams. 

There's freedom at thy gates, and rest 
For earth's down-trodden and opprest, 
A shelter for the hunted head, 
For the starved laborer toil and bread. 

Power, at thy bounds. 
Stops, and calls back his bafiled hounds. 

fair young mother ! on thy brow 
Shall sit a nobler grace than now. 
Deep in the brightness of thy skies 
The thronging years in glory rise. 

And, as they fleet. 
Drop strength and riches at thy feet. 

Thine eye, with every coming hour. 
Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower ; 
And when thy sisters, elder born, , 
Would brand thy name with words of scorn, 

Before thine eye 
Upon their lips the taunt shall die. 

William Cullbn Bryant. 



Q>ur State. 

The south-land boasts its teeming cane, 
The prairied west its heavy grain, 
And sunset's radiant gates unfold 
On rising marts and sands of gold ! 

Rough, bleak, and hard, our little State 
Is scant of soil, of limits strait ; 
Her yellow sands are sands alone. 
Her only mines are ice and stone I 

From autumn frost to April rain, 
Too long her winter woods complain ; 
From budding flower to falling leaf, 
Her summer time is all too brief. 

Yet, on her rocks, and on her sands, 
And wintry hills, the school-house stands ; 
And what her rugged soil denies 
The harvest of the mind supplies. 

The riches of the commonwealth 
Are free, strong minds, and hearts of health ; 
And more to her than gold or grain 
The cunning hand and cultured brain. 

For well she keeps her ancient stock. 
The stubborn strength of Pilgrim Rock ; 
And still maintains, with milder laws. 
And clearer light, the good old cause ! 

Nor heeds the sceptic's puny hands, 

While near her school the church-spire stands ; 

Nor fears the blinded bigot's rule, 

While near her church-spire stands the school. 

John Grbenleap Whittieb. 



iHontcreg. 

We were not many, we who stood 

Before the iron sleet that day ; 
Yet many a gallant spirit would 
Give half his years if but he could 
Have been with us at Monterey. 



THE BATTLE-FIELD. 



393 



Now here, now there, the shot it hailed 

In deadly drifts of fiery spray, 
Yet not a single soldier quailed 
When wounded comrades round them waUed 

Their dying shout at Monterey. 

And on, stiU on our column kept 

Through walls of flame its withering way ; 
Where fell the dead, the living stept, 
StUl charging on the guns which swept 
The slippery streets of Monterey. 

The foe himself recoiled aghast, 

When, striking where he strongest lay. 
We swooped his flanking batteries past, 
And braving full their murderous blast, 
Stormed home the towers of Monterey. 

Our banners on those turrets wave. 

And there our evening bugles play ; 
Where orange-boughs above their grave. 
Keep green the memory of the brave 
Who fought and fell at Monterey. 

We are not many, we who pressed 

Beside the brave who fell that day ; 
But who of us has not confessed 
He'd rather share their warrior rest 
Than not have been at Monterey ? 

ChAKLES FeNNO HoiTMAlf. 



OxcE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 

And fiery hearts and armed hands 
Encountered in the battle-cloud. 

Ah ! never shall the land forget 

How gushed the life-blood of her brave - 
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, 

Upon the soil they fought to save. 

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still : 
Alone the chirp of flitting bird, 

And talk of children on the hill. 
And bell of wandering kine are heard. 



No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain ; 
Men start not at the battle-cry — 

Oh, be it never heard again ! 

Soon rested those who fought ; but thou 
Who minglest in the harder strife 

For truths which men receive not now. 
Thy warfare only ends with life. 

A friendless warfare ! lingering long 
Through weary day and weary year ; 

A wild and many-weaponed throng 
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. 

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof. 
And blench not at thy chosen lot ; 

The timid good may stand aloof, 
The sage may frown — yet faint thou not. 

Nor heed the shaft too surely east. 
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; 

For with thy side shall dwell, at last, 
The victory of endurance born. 

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again — 
The eternal years of God are hers ; 

But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, 
And dies among his worshippers. 

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust. 
When they who helped thee flee in fear, 

Die full of hope and manly trust, 
Like those who fell in battle here ! 

Another hand thy sword shall wield. 
Another hand the standard wave, 

Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed 
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. 

WlLLTAUr CULLBN BkTANT. 



a;i}c Sflttle autumn of 1S62. 

The flags of war like storm-birds fly, 
The charging trumpets blow ; 

Yet rolls no thunder in the sky. 
No earthquake strives below. 



394 



FOUMS OF AMBITION. 



And, calm and patient, Nature keeps 

Her ancient promise well. 
Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps 

The battle's breath of hell. 

And still she walks in golden hours 

Through harvest-happy farms, 
And still she wears her fruits and flowers 

Like jewels on her arms. 

What mean the gladness of the plain, 

This joy of eve and morn, 
The mirth that shakes the beard of grain 

And yellow locks of corn ? 

Ah ! eyes may well be full of tears, 

And hearts with hate are hot ; 
But even-paced come round the years, 

And Nature changes not. 

She meets with smiles our bitter grief, 
With songs our groans of pain ; 

She mocks with tint of flower and leaf 
The war-field's crimson stain. 

Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear 

Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm ; 
Too near to God for doubt or fear, 

She shares the eternal calm. 

She knows the seed lies safe below 

The fires that blast and burn ; 
For all the tears of blood we sow 

She waits the rich return. 

She sees with clearer eye than ours 

The good of suffering born, — 
The hearts that blossom like her flowers, 

And ripen like her corn. 

0, give to us in times like these, 

The vision of her eyes ; 
And make her fields and fruited trees 

Our golden prophecies ! 

0, give to us her finer ear ! 

Above this stormy din. 
We too would hear the bells of cheer 

Ring peace and freedom in ! 

John Gbeenleaf Whittier. 



iTrcbmcksbnrg. 

The increasing moonlight drifts across my bed, 
And on the churchyard by the road, I know, 
It falls as white and noiselessly as snow. 

'Twas such a night two weary summers fled ; 

The stars as now were waning overhead. 
Listen ! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow 
Where the swift currents of the river flow 

Past Fredericksburg ; far off the heavens are red 

With sudden conflagration : on yon height. 
Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their 
breath ; 

A signal-rocket pierces the dense night, 
Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath ; 

Hark ! — the artillery massing on the right, 
Hark ! — the black squadrons wheeling down to 
death. Thomas Bailey Aldkich. 



" CoKPORAL Green ! " the orderly cried. 
" Here ! " was the answer, loud and clear, 
From the lips of the soldier who stood near ; 

And " Here ! " was the word the next replied. 

" Cyrus Drew ! " — then silence fell — 
This time no answer followed the call ; 
Only his rear man had seen him fall, 

Killed or wounded, he could not tell. 

There they stood in the failing light, 

These men of battle, with grave, dark looks, 
As plain to be read as open books, 

While slowly gathered the shades of night. 

The fern on the hillsides was splashed with 
blood, 
And down in the corn where the poppies 

grew, 
Were redder stains than the poppies knew ; 
And crimson-dyed was the river's flood. 

For the foe had crossed from the other side 
That day, in the face of a murderous fire 
That swept them down in its terrible ire, 

And their life-blood went to color the tide. 



BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 



395 



" Herbert Kline ! " At the call there came 
Two stalwart soldiers into the line, 
Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, 

Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name. 

" Ezra Kerr! " — and a voice answered, " Here ! " 
" Hiram Kerr ! " — but no man replied. 
They were brothers, these two ; the sad wind 
sighed, 

And a shudder crept through the cornfield near. 

" Ephraim Deane ! " — then a soldier spoke : 
" Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said ; 
" Where our ensign was shot I left him dead, 

Just after the enemy wavered and broke. 

" Close to the roadside his body lies ; 

I paused a moment and gave him drink ; 

He murmured his mother's name, 1 think. 
And death came with it, and closed his eyes." 

'Twas a victory, yes, but it cost us dear — 
For that company's roll, when called at night. 
Of a hundred men who went into the fight, 

Numbered but twenty that answered " Here ! " 

Nathaniel G. Shepherd. 



Barbara JTrietcljic. 

Up from the meadows rich with com. 
Clear in the cool September mom, 

The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 

Round about them orchards sweep, 
Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 

Fair as a garden of the Lord 

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde ; 

On that pleasant mom of the early fall 
When Lee marched over the mountain waU,- 

Over the mountains, winding down. 
Horse and foot into Frederick town. 

Forty flags with their silver stars. 
Forty flags with their crimson bars, 



Flapped in the morning wind ; the sun 
Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten ; 

Bravest of all in Frederick town. 

She took up the flag the men hauled down ; 

In her attic-window the staff she set. 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Under his slouched hat left and right 
He glanced : the old flag met his sight. 

" Halt ! " — the dust-brown ranks stood fast ; 
" Fire ! " — out blazed the rifle-blast. 

It shivered the window, pane and sash ; 
It rent the banner with seam and gash. 

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff 
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf ; 

She leaned far out on the window-sill. 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 

" Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
But spare your country's flag," she said. 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame. 
Over the face of the leader came ; 

The nobler nature within him stirred 
To life at that woman's deed and word : 

" Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
Dies like a dog ! March on ! " he said. 

All day long through Frederick street 
Sounded the tread of marching feet ; 

All day long that free flag tost 
Over the heads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell 

On the loyal winds that loved it well ; 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
Shone over it with a warm good-night. 

Barbara Prietchie's work is o'er, 

And the rebel rides on his raids no more. 



396 



P0E3IS OF AMBITION. 



Honor to her I and let a tear 

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 

Over Barbara Prietchie's grave, 
Flag of freedom and union, wave ! 

Peace, and order, and beauty draw 
Round thy symbol of light and law; 

And ever the stars above look down 
On thy stars below in Frederick town ! 

John Grbenlbap Whittier. 



ecije IBlack Kegimcnt. 

MAT «7th, 1863. 

Dark as the clouds of even, 
Ranked in the western heaven, 
Waiting the breath that lifts 
All the dead mass, and drifts 
Tempest and falling brand 
Over a ruined land ; — 
So still and orderly. 
Arm to arm, knee to knee, 
Waiting the great event, 
Stands the black regiment. 

Down the long dusky line 
Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine ; 
And the bright bayonet. 
Bristling and firmly set. 
Flashed with a purpose grand, 
Long ere the sharp command 
Of the fierce rolling drum 
Told them their time had come. 
Told them what work was sent 
For the black regiment. 

" Now," the flag-sergeant cried, 
" Though death and hell betide, 
Let the whole nation see 
If we are fit to be 
Free in this land ; or bound , 
Down, like the whining hound — 
Bound with red stripes of pain 
In our cold chains again ! " 
Oh ! what a shout there went 
From the black regiment ! 



" Charge ! " Trump and drum awoke ; 
Onward the bondmen broke ; 
Bayonet and sabre-stroke 
Vainly opposed their rush. 
Through the wild battle's crush, 
With but one thought aflush, 
Driving their lords like chaff, 
In the guns' mouths they laugh; 
Or at the slippery brands 
Leaping with open hands, 
Down they tear man and horse, 
Down in their awful course ; 
Trampling with bloody heel 
Over the crashing steel ; — 
All their eyes forward bent, 
Rushed the black regiment. 

" Freedom ! " their battle-cry — 
" Freedom ! or leave to die ! " 
Ah ! and they meant the word. 
Not as with us 'tis heard. 
Not a mere pai-ty shout ; 
They gave their spirits out. 
Trusted the end to God, 
And on the gory sod 
Rolled in triumphant blood ; 
Glad to strike one free blow, 
Whether for weal or woe ; 
Glad to breathe one free breath. 
Though on the lips of death ; 
Praying — alas ! in vain ! — 
That they might fall again. 
So they could once more see 
That burst to liberty ! 
This was what " freedom " lent 
To the black regiment. 

Hundreds on hundreds feU ; 
But they are resting well ; 
Scourges and shackles strong 
Never shall do them wrong. 
Oh, to the living few. 
Soldiers, be just and true ! 
Hail them as comrades tried ; 
Fight with them side by side ; 
Never, in field or tent. 
Scorn the black regiment ! 

George Hbnrt Bokbb. 



VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD. 



397 



t)igil Strange S kc^it on tlje £\c\'is. 

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night : 
When you, my son and my comrade, dropt at my 

side that day. 
One look I but gave, which your dear eyes re- 

turn'd, with a look I shall never forget ; 
One touch of your hand to mine, boy, reached 

up as you lay on the ground ; 
Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-con- 
tested battle ; 
Till late in the night relieved to the place at last 

again I made my way ; 
Found you in death so cold, dear comrade — found 

your body, son of responding kisses, (never 

again on earth responding ; ) 
Bared your face in the starlight — curious the 

scene — cool blew the moderate night-wind ; 
Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around 

me the battle-field spreading ; 
Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet, there in the fra- 
grant silent night ; 
But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh. — 

Long, long I gazed ; 
Then on the earth partially reclining, sat by your 

side, leaning my chin in my hands ;' 
Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours 

with you, dearest comrade — not a tear, not a 

word; 
Vigil of silence, love, and death — vigil for you, 

my son and my soldier ; 
As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones 

upward stole ; 
Vigil final for you, brave boy, (I could not save 

you, swift was your death, 
I faithfully loved you and cared for you living — 

I think we shall surely meet again ;) 
Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just 

as the dawn appeared. 
My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, enveloped well 

his form. 
Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over 

head, and carefully under feet ; 
And there and then, and bathed by the rising sun, 

my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave, I 

deposited ; 
Ending my vigil strange with that — vigil of night 

and battle-field dim ; 



Vigil for boy of responding kisses (never again on 
earth responding ;) 

Vigil for comrade swiftly slain — vigil I never for- 
get, how as day brightened, 

I rose from the chill ground, and folded my soldier 

well in his blanket. 

And buried him where he fell. 

Walt Whitman. 



^ Sigf)! in CIoin|i in X\\z jUag-brcok 
©rag anir JDiin. 

A SIGHT in camp in the day-break gray and dim. 

As from my tent I emerge so early, sleepless. 

As slow I walk in the cool fresh air, the path near 

by the hospital tent, 
Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out 

there, untended lying. 
Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish 

woollen blanket. 
Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all. 

Cu.rious I halt, and silent stand ; 

Then with light fingers I from the face of the near- 
est, the first, just lift the blanket : 

Who are you, elderly man so gaunt and grim, with 
well-grayed hair, and flesh all sunken about the 
eyes? 

Who are you, my dear comrade ? 

Then to the second I step. And who are you, my 

child and darling? 
Who are you, sweet boy, with cheeks yet blooming? 

Then to the third — a face nor chDd, nor old, very 
calm, as of beautiful yellow-white ivory ; 

Young man, I think I know you — I think this face 
of yours is the face of the Christ himself ; 

Dead and divine, and brother of all, and here again 
he lies. Walt Whitman. 



®nr JTallen j^croes. 



The angel of the nation's peace 

Has wreathed with flowers the battle-drum ; 
We see the fruiting fields increase 

Where sound of war no more shall come. 



398 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



The swallow skims the Tennessee, 
Soft winds play o'er the Rapidan ; 

There only echo notes of glee, 
Where gleamed a mighty army's van ! 

Fair Chattanooga's wooded slope 
With summer airs is lightly stirred, 

And many a heart is warm with hope 
Where once the deep-mouthed gun was heard. 

The blue Potomac stainless rolls, 
And Mission Ridge is gemmed with fern ; 

On many a height sleep gallant souls, 
And still the blooming years return. 

Thank God ! unseen to outward eye. 
But felt in every freeman's breast. 

From graves where fallen comrades lie 
Ascends at Nature's wise behest. 

With springing grass and blossoms new, 

A prayer to bless the nation's life. 
To freedom's flower give brighter hue. 

And hide the awful stains of strife. 

0, Boys in Blue, we turn to you. 

The scarred and mangled who survive ; 

No more we meet in grand review. 
But all the arts of freedom thrive. 

Still glows the jewel in its shrine. 
Won where the James now tranquil rolls ; 

Its wealth for all, the glory thine, 
memory of heroic souls I 

Geoege BANCEorT GsirriTH. 



Slje JBlue onI> tl)c ©rag. 

By the flow of the inland river, 

Wlience the fleets of iron have fled, 
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, 
Asleep are the ranks of the dead : 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the Judgment-day ; 
Under the one, the Blue, 
Under the other, the Gray. 



These in the robings of glory. 

Those in the gloom of defeat, 
All with the battle-blood gory. 
In the dusk of eternity meet : 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment-day; 
Under the laurel, the Blue, 
Under the willow, the Gray. 

From the silence of sorrowful hours 

The desolate mourners go, 
Lovingly laden with flowers 
Alike for the friend and the foe : 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment-day ; 
Under the roses, the Blue, 
Under the lilies, the Gray. 

So with an equal splendor 

The morning sun-rays fall. 
With a touch impartially tender. 
On the blossoms blooming for all : 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment-day ; 
Broidered with gold, the Blue, 
Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 

So, when the summer calleth, 
On forest and field of grain, 
With an equal murmur falleth 
The cooling drip of the rain : 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment-day ; 
Wet with the rain, the Blue, 
Wet with the rain, the Gray. 

Sadly, but not with upbraiding. 
The generous deed was done. 
In the storm of the years that are fading. 
No braver battle was won : 

Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment-day ; 
Under the blossoms, the Blue, 
Under the garlands, the Gray. 

No more shall the war-cry sever. 

Or the winding rivers be red ; 
They banish our anger forever 

When they laurel the graves of our dead ! 



THE BIVOUAC 


OF THE DEAD. 399 


Under the sod and the dew, 


Who heard the thunder of the fray 


Waiting the judgment-day ; 


Break o'er the field beneath. 


Love and tears for the Blue, 


Knew well the watchword of that day 


Tears and love for the Gray. 


Was victory or death. 


Fkamcis Miles Finch. 






Full many a norther's breath has swept 




O'er Angostura's plain, 




And long the pitying sky has wept 


9ri)c Siuoixac 0f tl)c JDcaJr. 


Above its mouldered slain. 




The raven's scream or eagle's flight. 


The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 


Or shepherd's pensive lay. 


The soldier's last tattoo ! 


Alone now wake each solemn height 


No more on life's parade shall meet 


That frowned o'er that dark fray. 


That brave and fallen few. 




On Fame's eternal camping-ground 


Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 


Their silent tents are spread ; 


Ye must not slumber there. 


And Glory guards, with solemn round. 


Where stranger steps and tongues resound 


The bivouac of the dead. 


Along the heedless air ; 




Your own proud land's heroic soil 


No rumor of the foe's advance 


Shall be your fitter grave : 


Now swells upon the wind : 


She claims from war its richest spoil, 


No troubled thought at midnight haunts 


The ashes of her brave. 


Of loved ones left behind : 




No vision of the morrow's strife 


Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest. 


The warrior's dream alarms. 


Far from the gory field. 


No braying horn or screaming fife 


Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 


At dawn shall call to arms. 


On many a bloody shield. 




The sunshine of their native sky 


Their shivered swords are red with rust. 


Smiles sadly on them here. 


Their plumed heads are bowed ; 


And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 


Their haughty banner, trailed in dust. 


The hero's sepulchre. 


Is now their martial shroud ; 




And plenteous funeral tears have washed 


Best on, embalmed and sainted dead ! 


The red stains from each brow ; 


Dear as the blood ye gave, 


And the proud foi-ms, by battle gashed. 


No impious footstep here shall tread 


Are free from anguish now. 


The herbage of your grave. 




Nor shall your glory be forgot 


The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 


While Fame her record keeps, 


The bugle's stirring blast. 


Or Honor points the hallowed spot 


The charge, the dreadful cannonade. 


Where Valor proudly sleeps. 


The din and shout, are passed ; 




Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, 


Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 


Shall thrill with fierce delight 


In deathless song shall tell, 


Those breasts that nevermore may feel 


When many a vanished year hath flown. 


The rapture of the fight. 


The story how ye fell ; 




Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's flight, 


Like the fierce Northern hurricane 


Nor Time's remorseless doom. 


That sweeps his great plateau, 


Can dim one ray of holy light 


Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, 


That gilds your glorious tomb. 


Comes down the serried foe. 


Theodore O'Haba. 



400 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



Incibunt 0f tl)e iTrcncI) (Hatnp. 

You know we French stormed Ratisbon : 

A mile or so away, 
On a little mound, Napoleon 

Stood on our storming-day ; 
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 

Legs wide, arms locked behind. 
As if to balance the prone brow, 

Oppressive with its mind. 

Just as perhaps he mused, " My plans 

That soar, to earth may fall. 
Let once my army-leader Lannes 

Waver at yonder wall," — 
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full-galloping ; nor bridle drew 

Until he reached the mound. 

Then off there flung in smiling joy, 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy: 

You hardly could suspect — 
(So tight he kept his lips compressed, 

Scarce any blood came through) 
You looked twice ere you saw his breast 

Was all but shot in two. 

" Well," cried he, " Emperor, by God's grace 

We've got you Ratisbon ! 
The marshal 's in the market-place. 

And you'll be there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 

Where I, to heart's desire. 
Perched him ! " The chief's eye flashed ; his plans 

Soared up again like fire. 

The chief's eye flashed ; but presently 

Softened itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother eagle's eye 

When her bruised eaglet breathes ; 
" You 're wounded ! " " Nay," his'soldier's pride 

Touched to the quick, he said : 
" I'm killed, sire ! " And, his chief beside, 

SmQing, the boy fell dead, 

EoBERT Browning. 



On Linden, when the sun was low. 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow. 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight 
When the drum beat, at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch arid trumpet fast arrayed. 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade. 
And furious every charger neighed 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven ; 
Then rushed the steeds to battle driven ; 
And, louder than the bolts of heaven, 
Par flashed the red artillery. 

But redder yet those flres shall glow 
On Linden's hills of crimsoned snow, 
And bloodier yet shall be the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis mom ; but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
Where furious Prank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave. 
Who rush to glory or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave. 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Few, few shall part where many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet ; 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

Thomas Campbell. 



Set in this stormy northern sea. 
Queen of these restless fields of tide, 

England ! what shall men say of thee. 
Before whose feet the worlds divide f 



AVU IMPERATRIX! 401 


The earth, a brittle globe of glass, 


And on from thence to Ispahan, 


Lies in the hollow of thy hand. 


The gilded garden of the sun, 


And through its heart of crystal pass, 


Whence the long dusty caravan 


Like shadows through a twilight land, 


Brings cedar and vermilion ; 


The spears of crimson-suited war. 


And that dread city of Cabul, 


The long white-crested waves of fight. 


Set at the mountain's scarped feet. 


And all the deadly fires which are 


Whose marble tanks are ever full 


The torches of the lords of night. 


With water for the noonday heat ; 


The yellow leopards, strained and lean, 


Where through the narrow straight bazaar 


The treacherous Russian knows so well, 


A little maid Circassian 


With gaping blackened jaws are seen 


Is led, a present from the Czar, 


To leap through hail of screaming shell. 


Unto some old and bearded Khan ; 


The strong sea-lion of England's wars 


Here have our wild war-eagles flown. 


Hath left his sapphire cave of sea, 


And flapped wide wings in fiery flight ; 


To battle with the storm that mars 


But the sad dove, that sits alone 


The star of England's chivalry. 


In England — she hath no delight. 


The brazen-throated clarion blows 


In vain the laughing girl will lean 


Across the Pathan's reedy fen. 


To greet her love with love-lit eyes: 


And the high steeps of Indian snows 


Down in some treacherous black ravine. 


Shake to the tread of armed men. 


Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies. 


And many an Afghan chief, who lies 


And many a moon and sim will see 


Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees. 


The lingering wistful children wait 


Clutches his sword in fierce surmise 


To climb upon their father's knee ; 


When on the mountain-side he sees 


And in each house made desolate. 


The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes 


Pale women who have lost their lord 


To teU how he hath heard afar 


WiU kiss the relics of the slain. 


The measured roll of English drums 


Some tarnished epaulette, some sword. 


Beat at the gates of Kandahar. 


Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain. 


For southern wind and east wind meet 


For not in quiet English fields 


Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire. 


Are these, our brothers, laid to rest, 


England with bare and bloody feef 


Where we might deck their broken shields 


Climbs the steep road of wide empire. 


With all the flowers the dead loved best. 


lonely Himalayan height, 


For some are by the Delhi walls. 


Gray pillar of the Indian sky, 


And many in the Afghan land. 


Where saw'st thou last in clanging fight 


And many where the Ganges falls 


Our winged dogs of victory ? 


Through seven mouths of shifting sand. 


The almond-groves of Samarcand, 


And some in Russian waters lie, 


Bokhara, where red lilies blo-^, 


And others in the seas which are 


And Oxus, by whose yellow sand 


The portals to the East, or by 


The grave white-turbaned merchants go ; 
28 


The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar. 



403 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



wandering graves ! restless sleep ! 

silence of the sunless day ! 
still ravine ! stormy deep ! 

Give up your prey ! Give up your prey ! 

And thou whose wounds are never healed, 

Whose weary race is never won, 
Cromwell's England ! must thou yield 

For every inch of ground a son ? 

Go ! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head. 
Change thy glad song to song of pain ; 

Wind and wild wave have got thy dead, 
And will not yield them back again. 

Wave and wild wind and foreign shore 
Possess the flower of English land — 

Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more, 
Hands that shall never clasp thy hand. 

What profit now that we have bound 

The whole round world with nets of gold, 

If hidden in our heart is found 
The care that groweth never old ? 

What profit that our galleys ride. 

Pine-forest-like, on every main ? 
Ruin and wreck are at our side. 

Grim warders of the house of pain. 

Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet ? 

Where is our English chivalry ? 
Wild grasses are their burial-sheet. 

And sobbing waves their threnody. 

loved ones lying far away, 

What word of love can dead lips send I 
wasted dust ! senseless clay ! 

Is this the end ? Is this the end ? 

Peace, peace ! we wrong the noble dead 

To vex their solemn slumber so : 
Though childless and with thorn-crowned head. 

Up the steep road must England go ; 

« 

Yet when this fiery web is spun. 

Her watchmen shall descry from far 
The young Eepublic like a sun 
Rise from these crimson seas of war. 

OscAB Wilde. 



2[l)e Olljarge of tl)e Cigl)! Brigabe ot 
Balakiava. 

Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of death, 

Rode the six hundred. 

Into the valley of death 

Rode the six hundred ; 
For up came an order which 

Some one had blundered. 
" Forward, the light brigade t 
Take the guns ! " Nolan said : 
Into the valley of death. 

Rode the six hundred. 

"Forward the light brigade I" 
No man was there dismayed — 
Not though the soldier knew 

Some one had blundered : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die — 
Into the valley of death, 

Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them, 

Volleyed and thundered. 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well ; 
Into the jaws of death. 
Into the mouth of hell, 

Rode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare. 
Plashed all at once in air, 
Sabring the gunners there. 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wondered. 
Plunged in the battery smoke. 
With many a desperate stroke 
The Russian line they broke ; 
Then they rode back, but not — 

Not the six hundred. 




THE 



HEWTDIUC. iJ AFPLBTON & C? 



YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 



403 



Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them, 

Volleyed and thundered. 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
Those that had fought so well 
Came from the jaws of death, 
Back from the mouth of hell. 
All that was left of them. 

Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade? 
Oh the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the light brigade, 

Noble six hundred ! 

Alfbbd Tenntson. 



f c iltoriners of ©ngionlJ. 

Ye mariners of England, 

That g^ard our native seas, 
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, 

The battle and the breeze. 
Your glorious standard launch again. 

To match another foe ! 
And sweep through the deep 

While the stormy winds do blow — 
While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave ! 
For the deck it was their field of fame, 

And ocean was their grave. 
WTiere Blake and mighty Nelson fell 

Your manly hearts shall glow. 
As ye sweep through the deep 

While the stormy winds do blow — 
Wliile the battle rages loud and long. 

And the stormy winds dp blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks, 

No towers along the steep ; 
Her march is o'er the mountain-wave. 

Her home is on the deep. 



With thunders from her native oak 

She quells the floods below, 
As they roar on the shore 

When the stormy winds do blow — 
When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific bum, 
Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! 

Our song and feast shall flow 
To the fame of your name. 

When the storm has ceased to blow — 
When the fiery fight is heard no more. 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 

Thomas Campbell. 



Battle of tl)c JSaltic. 

Of Nelson and the north 

Sing the glorious day's renown, 
When to battle fierce came forth 

All the might of Denmark's crown. 
And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; 

By each gun the lighted brand 

In a bold determined hand. 

And the prince of all the land 
Led them on. 

Like leviathans afloat 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; 
WhUe the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British line — 
It was ten of April morn by the chime. 

As they drifted on their path 

There was silence deep as death ; 

And the boldest held his breath 
For a time. 

But the might of England flushed 

To anticipate the scene ; 
And her van the fleeter rushed 

O'er the deadly space between. 
" Hearts of oak ! " onx captain cried ; when each gun 

From its adamantine lips 

Spread a death-shade round the ships. 

Like the hurricane eclipse 
Of the sun. 



404 



POJEMS OF AMBITION. 



Again ! again ! again ! 

And the havoc did not slack, 
Till a feeble cheer the Dane 

To our cheering sent us back ; 
Their shots along the deep slowly boom — 

Then ceased — and all is wail, 

As they strike the shattered sail. 

Or in conflagration pale. 
Light the gloom. 

Out spoke the victor then, 
As he hailed them o'er the wave : 

" Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 
And we conquer but to save ; 

So peace instead of death let us bring ; 
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, 
With the crews, at England's feet, 
And make submission meet 

To our king." 

Then Denmark blessed our chief. 

That he gave her wounds repose ; 
And the sounds of joy and grief 

From her people wildly rose. 
As death withdrew his shades from the day. 

While the sun looked smiling bright 

O'er a wide and woeful sight, 

Where the fires of funeral light 
Died away. 

Now joy, old England, raise ! 

For the tidings of thy might, 
By the festal cities' blaze. 

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; 
And yet, amidst that joy and uproar, 

Let us think of them that sleep 

Full many a fathom deep. 

By thy wUd and stormy steep, 
Blsinore ! 

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 

Once so faithful and so true. 
On the deck of fame that died. 

With the gallant good Riou — 
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave ! 

While the billow mournful rolls. 

And the mermaid's song condoles. 

Singing glory to the souls 

Of the brave ! 

Thomas Campbell. 



Would you hear of an old-fashioned sea-fight ? 
Would you learn who won by the light of the moon 

and stars ? 
List to the story as my grandmother's father, the 

sailor, told it to me. 

Our foe was no skulk in his ship, I tell you, (said 
he;) 

His was the surly English pluck, and there is no 
tougher or truer, and never was, and never 
will be ; 

Along the lowered eve he came, hon-ibly rak- 
ing us. 

We closed with him, the yards entangled, the can- 
non touched ; 
My captain lashed fast with his own hands. 

We had received some eighteen-pound shots under 
the water ; 

On our lower -gun-deck two large pieces had burst 
at the first fire, killing all around, and blow- 
ing up overhead. 

Fighting at sundown, fighting at dark ; 

Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our 
leaks on the gain, and five feet of water re- 
ported ; 

The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined 
in the after-hold, to give them a chance for 
themselves. 

The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt 

by the sentinels, 
They see so many strange faces, they do not know 

whom to trust. 

Our frigate takes fire ; 
The other asks if we demand quarter. 
If our colors are struck, and the fighting is 
done. 

Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my 

little captain : 
We have not strucJc, he composedly cries, we have 

Just begun our part of the fighting. 



THE SEA-FIGHT. 



405 



Only three guns are in use ; 

One is directed by the captain himself against the 

enemy's main-mast ; 
Two, well served with grape and canister, silence 

his musketry and clear his decks. 

The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, 

especially the main-top ; 
They hold out bravely during the whole of the action. 

Not a moment's cease ; 

The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats 
toward the powder-magazine. 

One of the pumps has been shot away, it is gener- 
ally thought we are sinking. 

Serene stands the little captain ; 

He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor 
low; 

His eyes give more light to us than our battle- 
lanterns. 

Toward twelve at night, there in the beams of the 
moon, they surrender to us. 

Stretched and still lies the midnight ; 

Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the 
darkness ; 

Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking — prepara- 
tions to pass to the one we have conquered ; 

The captain on the quarter-deck coldly giving 
his orders through a countenance white as a 
sheet ; 

Near by, the corpse of the child that served in the 
cabin ; 

The dead face of an old salt with long white hair 
and carefully curled whiskers ; 

The flames, spite of all that can be done, flickering 
aloft and below ; 

The husky voices of the two or three ofiicers yet 
fit for duty ; 

Formless stacks of bodies, and bodies by them- 
selves, dabs of flesh upon the masts and 
spars. 

Cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, slight shock of 
the soothe of waves. 

Black and impassive guns, litter of powder-parcels, 
strong scent, 



Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass, 

and charge to survivors. 
The hiss of the surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth 

of his saw. 
Wheeze, chuck, swash of falling blood, short wild 

scream, and long, dull, tapering groan ; 
These so — these irretrievable. 

Walt Whitman. 



a;i)e Sca-iFiigl)!. 

AS TOLD BY AN ANCIENT MARINEE. 

Ah, yes,. the fight! Well, messmates, well, 
I served on board that ninety-eight ; 

Yet what I saw I loathe to tell. 
To-night, be sure a crushing weight 

Upon my sleeping breast, a hell 
Of dread will sit. At any rate. 

Though land-locked here, a watch I'll keep — 

Grog cheers us still. Who cares for sleep f 

That ninety-eight I sailed on board ; 

Along the Frenchman's coast we flew; 
Right aft the rising tempest roared ; 

A noble first-rate hove in view ; 
And soon high in the gale there soared 

Her strearaed-out bunting — red, white, blue! 
We cleared for fight, and landward bore. 
To get between the chase and shore. 

Masters, I cannot spin a yarn 
Twice laid with words of silken stuff. 

A fact's a fact ; and ye may lam 

The rights o' this, though wild and rough 

My words may loom. 'Tis your consarn, 
Not mine, to understand. Enough ! 

We neared the Frenchman where he lay. 

And as we neared, he blazed away. 

We tacked, hove to ; we filled, we wore ; 

Did all that seamanship could do 
To rake him aft, or by the fore ; 

Now rounded off, and now broached to ; 
And now our starboard broadside bore, 

And showers of iron through and through 
His vast hull hissed ; our larboard then 
Swept from his three-fold decks his men. 



406 POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 


As we, like a huge serpent, toiled, 


Arose the Frenchman's shout. Again 


And wound about, through that wild sea. 


The bolt burst on us, and we found 


The Frenchman each manoeuvre foiled — 


Our masts all gone, our decks all riven : 


'Vantage to neither there could be. 


Man's war mocks faintly that of heaven ! 


Whilst thus the waves between us boiled, 




We both resolved right manfully 


Just then — nay, messmates, laugh not now — 


To fight it side by side ; — began 


As I, amazed, one minute stood 


Then the fierce strife of man to man. 


Amidst that rout: I know not how — 




'Twas silence all — the raving flood. 


Gun bellows forth to gun, and pain 


The guns that pealed from stem to bow. 


Rings out her wild, delirious scream ! 


And God's own thunder — nothing could 


Redoubling thunders shake the main ; 


I then of all that tumult hear. 


Loud crashing, falls the shot-rent beam. 


Or see aught of that scene of fear. 


The timbers with the broadsides strain ; 




The slippery decks send up a steam 


My aged mother at her door 


Prom hot and living blood, and high 


Sat mildly o'er her humming wheel ; 


And shrill is heard the death-pang cry. 


The cottage, orchard, and the moor — 




I saw them plainly all. I'll kneel, 


The shredded limb, the splintered bone. 


And swear I saw them ! Oh, they wore 


Th' unstifEened corpse, now block the way ! 


A look all peace. Could I but feel 


Who now can hear the dying groan ? 


Again that bliss that then I felt, 


The trumpet of the judgment-day, 


That made my heart, like childhood's, melt ! 


Had it pealed forth its mighty tone, 




We should not then have heard, — to say 


The blessed tear was on my cheek. 


Would be rank sin ; but this I tell. 


She smiled with that old smile I know : 


That could alone our madness quell. 


" Turn to me, mother, turn and speak," 




Was on my quivering lips — when lo ! 


Upon the forecastle I fought 


All vanished, and a dark, red streak 


As captain of the for'ad gun. 


Glared wild and vivid from the foe. 


A scattering shot the carriage caught ! 


That flashed upon the blood-stained water — 


What mother then had known her son 


For fore and aft the flames had caught her. 


Of those who stood around ? — distraught. 




And smeared with gore, about they run, 


She struck and hailed us. On us fast 


Then fall, and writhe, and howling die ! 


All burning, helplessly, she came — 


But one escaped — that one was I ! 


Near, and more near; and not a mast 




Had we to help us from that flame. 


Night darkened round, and the storm pealed, 


'Twas then the bravest stood aghast — 


To windward of us lay the foe. 


'Twas then the wicked, on the name 


As he to leeward over keeled. 


(With danger and with guilt appalled,) 


He could not fight his guns below ; 


Of God, too long neglected, called. 


So just was going to strike — when reeled 




Our vessel, as if some vast blow 


Th' eddying flames with ravening tongue 


Prom an almighty hand had rent 


Now on our ship's dark bulwarks dash — 


The h\ige ship from her element. « 


We almost touched — when ocean rang 




Down to its depths with one loud crash I 


Then howled the thunder. Tumult then 


In heaven's top vault one instant hung 


Had stunned herself to silence. Round 


The vast, intense, and blinding flash ! 


Were scattered lightning-blasted men ! 


Then all was darkness, stillness, dread — 


Our mainmast went. All stifled, drowned. 


The wave moaned o'er the valiant dead. 



YH GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND. 407 


She's gone ! blown up ! that gallant foe ! 


In claps of roaring thunder, 


And though she left us in a plight, 


Which darkness doth enforce, 


We floated still ; long were, I know. 


We often find our ship to stray 


And hard, the labors of that night 


Beyond our wonted course ; 


To clear the wreck. At length in tow 


Which causeth great distractions. 


A fi-igate took us, when 'twas light ; 


And sinks our hearts f uU low ; 


And soon an English port we gained — 


'Tis in vain to complain, 


A hulk all battered and blood-stained. 


When the stormy winds do blow. 


So many slain — so many drowned ! 


Sometimes in Neptune's bosom 


1 like not of that fight to tell. 


Our ship is tossed in waves. 


Come, let the cheerful grog go round ! 


And every man expecting 


Messmates, I've done. A spell, ho, spell — 


The sea to be their graves ; 


Though a pressed man, I'll stUl be found 


Then up aloft she mounteth, 


To do a seaman's duty well. 


And down again so low ; 


I wish our brother landsmen knew 


'Tis with waves — ! with waves. 


One half we joUy tars go through. 


When the stormy winds do blow. 


Anonymous. 






Then down again we fall to prayer, 




With all our might and thought ; 




When refuge all doth fail us. 


fe (&eiMkxatn of ©nglanir. 


'Tis that must bear us out ; 




To God we call for succor. 


Ye gentlemen of England 


For he it is, we know. 


That live at home at ease. 


That must aid us, and save us. 


Ah ! little do you think upon 


When the stormy winds do blow. 


The dangers of the seas. 




Give ear unto the mariners. 


The lawyer and the usurer. 


And they will plainly show 


That sit in gowns of fur, 


All the cares and the fears 


In closets warm can take no harm, — 


When the stormy winds do blow. 


Abroad they need not stir ; 




When winter fierce with cold doth pierce. 


All you that will be seamen. 


And beats with hail and snow. 


Must bear a valiant heart, 


We are sure to endure, 


For when you come upon the seas. 


When the stormy winds do blow. 


You must not think to start ; 




Nor once to be faint-hearted. 


We bring home costly merchandise. 


In haU, rain, blow, or snow. 


And jewels of great price. 


Nor to think for to shrink 


To serve our English gallantry, 


When the stormy winds do blow. 


With many a rare device ; 




To please the English gallantry. 


The bitter storms and tempests 


Our pains we freely show, 


Poor seamen do endure. 


For we toil, and we moD, 


Both day and night, with many a fright, 


When the stormy winds do blow. 


We seldom rest secure. 




Our sleep it is disturbed 


We sometimes sail to the Indies 


With visions strange to know. 


To fetch home spices rare ; 


And with dreams, on the streams. 


Sometimes again to France and Spain, 


When the stormy winds do blow. 


For wines beyond compare : 



408 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



Whilst gallants are carousing, 

In taverns on a row, 
Then we sweep o'er the deep 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

When tempests are blown over. 

And greatest fears are past, 
In weather fair, and temperate air, 

We straight lie down to rest ; 
But when the billows tumble. 

And waves do furious grow, 
Then we rouse, up we rouse. 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

If enemies oppose us, 

When England is at wars, 
With any foreign nations, 

We fear not wounds nor scars ; 
Our roaring guns shall teach 'em 

Our valor for to know. 
Whilst they reel in the keel, 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

We are no cowardly shrinkers. 

But true Englishmen bred ; 
We'U play our parts like valiant hearts, 

And never fly for dread ; 
We'll ply our business nimbly. 

Where'er we come or go. 
With our mates to the Straits, 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

Then courage, all brave mariners. 

And never be dismayed, — 
Whilst we have bold adventurers, 

We ne'er shall want a trade ; 
Our merchants will employ us 

To fetch them wealth, I know ; 
Then be bold, work for gold, 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

When we return in safety. 

With wages for our pains, 
The tapsier and the vintner 

Will help to share our gains ; 
We'll call for liquor roundly, 

And pay before we go ; 
Then we'll roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

Makttn Pabkee. 



dasobionca. 

The boy stood on the burning deck 

Whence all but him had fled ; 
The flame that lit the battle's wreck 

Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm ; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though child-like form. 

The flames rolled on — he would not go 

Without his father's word ; 
That father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud — " Say, father, say, 

If yet my task is done f " 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

" Speak, father ! " once agaLa he cried, 

" If 1 may yet be gone ! " 
And but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames rolled on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath. 

And in his waving hair. 
And looked from that lone post of death 

In still, yet brave despair. 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

" My father ! must I stay ? " 
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud. 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild. 

They caught the flag on high, 
And streamed above the gallant child, 

Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder sound — 

The boy — oh ! where was he? 
Ask of the winds that far around 

With fragments strewed the sea ! — 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fan-. 
That well had borne their part — 

But the noblest thing that perished there 
Was that young, faithful heart ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



EERVE RIEL. 



409 



^ertJc Kiel. 

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred 

ninety-two, 
Did the English fight the French — woe to 

France ! 
And the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through 

the blue, 
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of 

sharks pursue. 
Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the 

Ranee, 
With the English fleet in view. 

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor 
in full chase ; 
First and foremost of the drove, in his great 
ship, Damfreville ; 
Close on him fled, great and small. 
Twenty-two good ships in all ; 
And they signalled to the place, 
" Help the winners of a race ! 
Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick ; 

or, quicker still. 
Here's the English can and will ! " 

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk, and 
leaped on board ; 
"Why, what hope or chance have ships like 
these to pass ? " laughed they : 
Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage 

scarred and scored. 
Shall the ' Formidable,' here, with her twelve-and- 
eighty guns. 
Think to make the river-mouth by the single 
narrow way. 
Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of 
twenty tons. 
And with flow at full beside ? 
Now 'tis slackest ebb of tide. 
Reach the mooring ? Rather say. 
While rock stands, or water runs. 
Not a ship will leave the bay ! " 

Tlien was called a council straight : 

Brief and bitter the debate. 

" Here 's the English at our heels : would you have 

them take in tow 
All that 's left us of the fleet, linked together stern 

and bow ; 



For a prize to Plymouth Sound ? 
Better run the ships aground ! " 

(Ended Damfreville his speech.) 
" Not a minute more to wait ! 
Let the captains all and each 
Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on 
the beach ! 
France must undergo her fate ! " 
" Give the word ! " But no such word 
Was ever spoke or heard : 
For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck, 
amid all these, — 
A captain? a lieutenant? a mate, — first, second, 
third ? 
No such man of mark, and meet 
With his betters to compete ! 
But a simple Breton sailor, pressed by Tour- 
ville for the fleet, 
A poor coasting-pilot, he, — Herve Riel, the 
Croisickese. 

And "What mockery or malice have we here?" 
cried Herve Riel. 
" Are you mad, you Malouins ? Are you cow- 
ards, fools, or rogues ? 
Talk to me of rocks and shoals? — me, who took 

the soundings, tell 
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every 
swell, 
'Twixt the ofiing here and Greve, where the riv- 
er disembogues ? 
Are you bought for English gold ? Is it love the 
lying 's for ? 
Morn and eve, night and day. 
Have I piloted your bay. 
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Soli- 
dor. 
Burn the fleet, and ruin France? That were 
worse than fifty Hogues ! 
Sirs, then know I speak the truth ! Sirs, be- 
lieve me, there 's a way ! 
Only let me lead the line. 
Have the biggest ship to steer, 
Get this ' Formidable ' clear. 
Make the others follow mine, 
And I lead them, most and least, by a passage 1 
know well, 
Right to Solidor past Greve, 
And there lay them safe and sound ; 



410 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



And if one ship misbehave, — 

Keel so much as grate the ground, — 
Why, IVe nothing but my life ; here 's my head ! " 
cries Herve Riel. 

Not a minute more to wait. 

" Steer us in, then, small and great ! 

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squad- 
ron ! " cried its chief. 
Captains, give the sailor place ! 

He is admiral, in brief. 
Still the north wind, by God's grace. 
See the noble fellow's face. 
As the big ship, with a bound. 
Clears the entry like a hound. 
Keeps the passage, as its inch of way were the 
wide sea's profound ! 
See, safe through shoal and rock. 
How they follow in a flock ; 
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates 
the ground, 
Not a spar that comes to grief ! 
The peril, see, is past ! 
All are harbored to the last ! 
And, just as Herve Riel hollas " Anchor ! " sure as 

fate, 
Up the English, come, — too late ! 

So the storm subsides to calm ; 
They see the green trees wave 
On the heights o'erlooking Greve ; 
Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. 
" Just our rupture to enhance. 

Let the English rake the bay. 
Gnash their teeth, and glare askance 
As they cannonade away ! 
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the 

Ranee ! " 
How hope succeeds despair on each captain's coun- 
tenance ! 
Out burst all with one accord, 
" This is paradise for hell ! 
Let Prance, let Prance's king. 
Thank the man that did the thing ! " 
What a shout, and all one word, 

"Herve Riel!" 
As he stepped in front once more ; 
Not a symptom of surprise 
In the frank blue Breton eyes, — 
Just the same man as before. 



Then said Damfreville, " My friend, 
I must speak out at the end, 

Though I iind the speaking hard ; 
Praise is deeper than the lips : 
You have saved the king his ships ; 

You must name your own reward. 
Paith, our sun was near eclipse ! 
Demand whate'er you will. 
Prance remains your debtor stiU. 
Ask to heart's content, and have ! or my name 's 
not Damfreville." 

Then a beam of fun outbroke 
On the bearded mouth that spoke, 

As the honest heart laughed through 

Those frank eyes of Breton blue : — 
" Since I needs must say my say, 

Since on board the duty 's done, 

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is 
it but a run ? — 
Since 'tis ask and have, I may ; 

Since the others go ashore, — 
Come ! A good whole holiday ! 

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the 
Belle Aurore ! " 

That he asked, and that he got, — nothing more. 

Name and deed alike are lost ; 
Not a pillar nor a post 
In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it be- 
fell; 
Not a head in white and black 
On a single fishing-smack 

In memory of the man but for whom had gone to 
wrack 
All that Prance saved from the fight whence 
England bore the bell. 
Go to Paris ; rank on rank 

Search the heroes flung pell-mell 
On the Louvre, face and flank ; 
You shall look long enough ere you come to 
Herve Riel. 
So, for better and for worse, 
Herve Riel, accept ray verse ! 
In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more 
Save the squadron, honor Prance, love thy wife 
the Belle Aurore ! 

BOBEBT BBOWNINQ. 



SONG OF THE GREEK POET. 



411 



Song of tl)<r ^xzzk poet. 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, 

Whei'e Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet ; 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse, 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute. 

Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds which echo further west 

Than your sires' Islands of the Blest. 

The mountains look on Marathon, 
And Marathon looks on the sea : 

And musing there an hour alone, 
I dreamed that Greece might still be free ; 

For, standing on the Persians' grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sat on the rocky brow 
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below,' 
And men in nations — all were his! 

He counted them at break of day — 

And when the shn set, where were they 1 

And where are they? and where art thou. 
My country ? On thy voiceless shore 

Tlie heroic lay is tuneless now. 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long diA^ine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine ? 

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though linked among a fettered race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame. 
Even as 1 sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here ? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? 

Must we but blush f Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 



Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylae ! 

What ! silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah no ! — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 

And answer, " Let one living head, 
But one, arise — we come, we come !" 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain — in vain ; strike other chords ; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call. 
How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet. 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one ? 

Tou have the letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these I 
It made Anacreon's song divine ; 

He served — but served Polycrates, 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still at least our countrymen. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend ! 
That tyrant was Miltiades ! 

Oh that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
And there perhaps some seed is sown 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 

Trast not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king who buys and sells ; 

In native swords, and native ranks, 
The only hope of courage dwells ; 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 

Would break your shield, however bread. 



413 POEMS OF AMBITION. 


Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 


As lightnings from the mountain-cloud ; 


Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 


And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 


I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 


Bozzaris cheer his band : 


But gazing on each glowing maid, 


" Strike — till the last armed foe expires ; 


My own the burning tear-drop laves, 


Strike — for your altars and your fires ; 


To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 


Strike — for the green graves of your sires ; 




God — and your native land ! " 


Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 




Where nothing, save the waves and I, 


They fought — like brave men, long and well ; 


May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 


They piled that ground with Moslem slain ; 


There, swan-like, let me sing and die. 


They conquered — but Bozzaris fell. 


A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 


Bleeding at every vein. 


Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 


His few surviving comrades saw 


Lord Btbon. 


His smile when rang their proud hurrah. 




And the red field was won ; 




Then saw in death his eyelids close 


Maxza So^^aris. 


Calmly, as to a night's repose. 


Like flowers at set of sun. 


At midnight, in his guarded tent. 




The Turk was dreaming of the hour 


Come to the bridal chamber, death ; 


When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 


Come to the mother's when she feels. 


Should tremble at his power. 


For the first time, her first-born's breath ; 


In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 


Come when the blessed seals 


The trophies of a conqueror ; 


That close the pestilence are broke, 


In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 


And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 


Then wore his monarch's signet-ring — 


Come in consumption's ghastly form. 


Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king; 


The earthquake-shock, the ocean-storm ; 


As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing. 


Come when the heart beats high and warm. 


As Eden's garden bird. 


With banquet-song, and dance, and wine ; 




And thou art terrible — the tear. 


At midnight, in the forest shades. 


The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier ; 


Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band — 


And all we know, or dream, or fear 


True as the steel of their tried blades. 


Of agony, are thine. 


Heroes in heart and hand. 




There had the Persian's thousands stood, 


But to the hero, when his sword 


There had the glad earth drunk their blood, 


Has won the battle for the free. 


On old Platsea's day ; 


Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word ; 


And now there breathed that haunted air 


And in its hollow tones are heard 


The sons of sires who conquered there. 


The thanks of millions yet to be. 


With arms to strike, and soul to dare, 


Come, when his task of fame is wrought — 


As quick, as far, as they. 


Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought — 




Come in her crowning hour — and then 


An hour passed on — the Turk awoke: 


Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 


That bright dream was his last ; , 


To him is welcome as the sight 


He woke — to hear his sentries shriek. 


Of sky and stars to prisoned men ; 


" To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek ! " 


Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 


He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke. 


Of brother in a foreign land ; 


And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke. 


Thy summons welcome as the cry 


And death-shots falling thick and fast 


That told the Indian isles were nigh 



THE ME3I0RY 


OF TEE DEAD. 413 


To the world-seeking Genoese, 


But a true man, like you, man, 


When the land-wind, from woods of palm, 
And orange-groves, and fields of balm, 


Will fill youi- glass with us. 


Blew o'er the Haj-tian seas. 


We drink the memory of the brave, 




The faithful and the few — 


Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 


Some lie far ofE beyond the wave — 


Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 


Some sleep in Ireland, too ; 


Rest thee — there is no prouder gi-ave, 


All, all are gone — but still lives on 


Even in her own proud clime. 


The fame of those who died — 


She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 


All true men, like you, men, 


Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, 


Remember them with pride. 


Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, 




In sorrow's pomp and pageantry. 

The heartless luxury of the tomb. 
But she remembers thee as one 
Long loved, and for a season gone. 
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, 


Some on the shores of distant lands 
Their weary hearts have laid. 

And by the stranger's heedless hands 
Their lonely graves were made ; 

But, though their clay be far away 


Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; 
For thee she rings the birth-day bells ; 
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells ; 
For thine her evening prayer is said 


Beyond the Atlantic foam — 
In true men, like you, men, 
Theii- spirit 's still at home. 


At palace couch, and cottage bed ; 
Her soldier, closing with the foe, 
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; 
His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him, the joy of her young years, 
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears. 

And she, the mother of thy boys. 
Though in her eye and faded cheek 
Is read the grief she will not speak. 


The dust of some is Irish earth ; 

Among their own they rest ; 
And the same land that gave them birth 

Has caught them to her breast ; 
And we will pray that from their Clay 

FuU many a race may start 
Of true men, like you, men, 

To act as brave a part. 


The memory of her buried joys — 
And even she who gave thee birth. 
Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth. 

Talk of thy doom without a sigh ; 
For thou art freedom's now, and fame's — 
One of the few, the immortal names 

That were not born to die. 

Fitz-Geeene Halleok. 


ITiey rose in dark and evil days 

To right their native land ; 
They kindled here a living blaze 

That nothing shall withstand. 
Alas ! that might can vanquish right — 

They fell and passed away; 
But trae men, like you, men. 

Are plenty here to-day. 




Then here 's theii- memory — may it be 


Wc\z ittetnorg of tl)e JHcob. 


For us a guiding light. 
To cheer our strife for liberty, 


Who fears to speak of Ninety-eight ? 
Who blushes at the name ? 


And teach us to unite. 
Through good and iU, be Ireland's stiU, 


When cowards mock the patriot's fate. 


Though sad as theirs your fate ; 


Who hangs his head for shame ? 


And true men, be you, men, 


He 's all a knave, or half a slave. 


Like those of Ninety-eight ! 


Who slights his country thus ; 


John Kells Ingram. 



414 



P0E3IS OF AMBITION. 



®l)e Vitixd of fiucknou). 

Oh, that last day in Lueknow fort ! 

We knew that it was the last ; 
That the enemy's mines crept surely in, 

And the end was coming fast. 

To yield to that foe meant worse than death ; 

And the men and we all worked on ; 
It was one day more of smoke and roar, 

And then it would all be done. 

There was one of us, a corporal's wife, 

A fair, young, gentle thing, 
Wasted with fever in the siege, 

And her mind was wandering. 

She lay on the ground, in her Scottish plaid, 

And 1 took her head on my knee ; 
" When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," 
she said, 

" Oh ! then please wauken me." 

She slept like a child on her father's floor. 

In the flecking of woodbine-shade, 
When the house-dog sprawls by the open door. 

And the mother's wheel is stayed. 

It was smoke and roar and powder-stench. 

And hopeless waiting for death ; 
And the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child. 

Seemed scarce to draw her breath. 

I sank to sleep ; and I had my dream 

Of an English village-lane. 
And wall and garden ; but one wild scream 

Brought me back to the roar again. 

There Jessie Brown stood listening 

Till a sudden gladness broke 
All over her face ; and she caught my hand 

And drew me near and spoke : • 

" The Hielanders ! Oh ! dinna ye hear 

The slogan far awa ? 
The McGregor's ? Oh ! I ken it weel ; 

It's the grandest o' them a' ! 



" God bless thae bonny Hielanders ! 

We're saved ! we're saved ! " she cried ; 
And fell on her knees ; and thanks to God 

Plowed forth like a fuU flood-tide. 

Along the battery-line her cry 

Had fallen among the men. 
And they started back ; — they were there to die ; 

But was life so near them, then ? 

They listened for life ; the rattling fire 

Far off, and the far-off roar, 
Were all ; and the colonel shook his head. 

And they turned to their guns once more. 

Then Jessie said, " That slogan 's done ; 

But can ye hear them noo. 
The Campbells are comin' ? It 's no a dream ; 

Our succors hae broken through ! " 

We heard the roar and the rattle afar, 

But the pipes we could not hear ; 
So the men plied their work of hopeless war, 

And knew that the end was near. 

It was not long ere it made its way, — 

A thrilling, ceaseless sound : 
It was no noise from the strife afar, 

Or the sappers under ground. 

It was the pipers of the Highlanders ! 

And now they played Auld Lang Syne. 
It came to our men like the voice of God, 

And they shouted along the line. 

And they wept, and shook one another's hands. 
And the women sobbed in a crowd ; 

And every one knelt down where he stood, 
And we all thanked God aloud. 

That happy day, when we welcomed them. 

Our men put Jessie first ; 
And the general gave her his hand, and cheers 

Like a storm from the soldiers burst. 

And the pipers' ribbons and tartan streamed. 
Marching round and round our line ; 

And our joyful cheers were broken with tears. 
As the pipes played Auld Lang Syne. 

Robert Traill Spence Lowell. 



TEE OLD POLITICIAN. 



415 



aijc |)rioate of X\\t J3uffs. 

Last night, among his fellow roughs, 

He jested, quaffed, and swore ; 
A drunken private of the Buffs, 

Who never looked before. 
To-day, beneath the foeman's frown, 

He stands in Elgin's place. 
Ambassador from Britain's crown, 

And type of all her race. 

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught. 

Bewildered, and alone, 
A heart, with English instinct fraught, 

He yet can call his own. 
Ay, tear his body limb from limb, 

Bring cord or axe or flame, 
He only knows that not through him 

Shall England come to shame. 

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed. 

Like dreams, to come and go ; 
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed, 

One sheet of living snow ; 
The smoke above his father's door 

In gray soft eddyings hung ; 
Must he then watch it rise no more. 

Doomed by himself so young? 

Yes, honor calls ! — with strength like steel 

He put the vision by ; 
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel, 

An English lad must die. 
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink. 

With knee to man unbent. 
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, 

To his red grave he went. 

Vain mightiest fleets of iron framed. 

Vain those all-shattering guns. 
Unless proud England keep untamed 

The strong heart of her sons ; 
So let his name through Europe ring, — 

A man of mean estate. 
Who died, as firm as Sparta's king. 

Because his soul was great. 

Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. 



^\\z ®1& ^Politician. 

Now that Tom Dunstan 's cold. 

Our shop is duller ; 
Scarce a story is told ! 
And our chat has lost the old 

Red-republican color ! 
Though he was sickly and thin, 

He gladdened us with his face — 
How, warming at rich man's sin, 
With bang of the fist, and chin 

Thrust out, he argued the case ! 
He prophesied folk should be free. 

And the money-bags be bled — 
" She 's coming, she 's coming ! " said he ; 
" Courage, boys ! wait and see ! 

Freedom 's ahead ! " 

All day we sat in the heat. 

Like spiders spinning, 
Stitching full fine and fleet, 
WhUe the old Jew on his seat 

Sat greasily grinning : 
And there Tom said his say. 

And prophesied Tyranny's death, 
And the tallow burnt all day. 
And we stitched and stitched away 

In the thick smoke of our breath, 
Wearily, wearily. 

With hearts as heavy as lead — 
But " Patience, she 's coming ! " said he ; 
" Courage, boys ! wait and see ! 

Freedom 's ahead ! " 

And at night, when we took here 

The pause allowed to us. 
The paper came with the beer. 
And Tom read, sharp and clear, 

The news out loud to us ; 
And then, in his witty way. 

He threw the jest about — 
The cutting things he 'd say 
Of the wealthy and gay ! 

How he turned them inside out ! 
And it made our breath more free 

To hearken to what he said — 
" She 's coming, she 's coming ! " says he ; 
" Courage, boys ! wait and see ! 

Freedom 's ahead ! " 



416 POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 


But grim Jack Hart, with a sneer, 


Scarce a story is told ! 


"Would mutter, " Master ! 


Our talk has lost the old 


If Freedom means to appear, 


Eed-republican color. 


I think she might step here 


But we see a figure gray. 


A little faster 1 " 


And we hear a voice of death, 


Then it was fine to see Tom flame, 


And the tallow burns aU day, 


And argue and prove and preach, 


And we stitch and stitch away. 


Till Jack was silent for shame, 


In the thick smoke of our breath ; 


Or a fit of coughing came 


Ay, here in the dark sit we, 


0' sudden to spoil Tom's speech. 


"While wearily, wearily. 


Ah ! Tom had the eyes to see. 


"We hear him call from the dead — 


When Tyranny should be sped ; 


" She 's coming, she 's coming ! " said he ; 


" She 's coming, she 's coming ! " said he ; 


" Freedom 's ahead ! " 


" Courage, boys ! wait and see ! 




Freedom 's ahead ! " 


How long, Lord, how long 




Doth thy handmaid linger ? 


But Tom was little and weak, 


She who shall right the wrong ? 


The hard hours shook him ; 


Make the oppressed strong? — 


Hollower grew his cheek. 


Sweet morrow, bring her ! 


And when he began to speak 


Hasten her over the sea. 


The coughing took him. 


Lord, ere hope be fled — 


Ere long the cheery sound 


Bring her to men and to me I 


Of his chat among us ceased, 


slave, pray still on thy knee — 


And we made a purse all round. 


" Freedom 's ahead ! "' 


That he might not starve, at least ; 


Robert Buchanan. 


His pain was sorry to see, 




Yet there, on his poor sick-bed, 




" She 's coming, in spite of me ! 
Courage, and wait ! " cried he, 


©jeorgc Nibiuer. 


" Freedom 's ahead ! " 


Men have done brave deeds. 




And bards have sung them well ; 


A little before he died. 


I of good George Nidiver 


To see his passion ! 


Now the tale will tell. 


" Bring me a paper ! " he cried, 




And then to study it tried 


In California mountains 


In his old sharp fashion ; 


A hunter bold was he ; 


And with eyeballs glittering 


Keen his eye and sure his aim 


His look on me he bent. 


As any you should see. 


And said that savage thing 




Of the lords of the Parliament. 


A little Indian boy 


Then, darkening, smiling on me. 


Followed him everywhere, 


" "What matter if one be dead ? 


Eager to share the hunter's joy. 


She 's coming, at least ! " said |ie ; 


The hunter's meal to share. 


" Courage, boys ! wait and see ! 




Freedom 's ahead ! " 


And when the bird or deer 




Fell by the hunter's skill. 


Ay, now Tom Dunstan 's cold. 


The boy was always near 


The shop feels duller ; 


To help with right good-will. 



SONNUTS. 



417 



One day as through the cleft 
Between two mountams steep, 

Shut in both right and left, 
Their questing way they keep, 

They see two grizzly bears, 
With hunger fierce and fell, 

Rush at them unawares 
Right down the naiTow dell. 

The boy turned round with screams, 

And ran with terror wild ; 
One of the pair of savage beasts 

Pursued the shrieking chUd. 

The hunter raised his gun. 
He knew 07ie charge was all, 

And through the boy's pursuing foe 
He sent his only ball. 

The other on George Mdiver 
Came on with dreadful pace ; 

The hunter stood unarmed. 
And met him face to face. 

I say unarmed he stood ; 

Against those frightful paws. 
The rifle-butt, or club of wood. 

Could stand no more than straws. 

George Nidiver stood still. 
And looked him in the face ; 

The wild beast stopped amazed. 
Then came with slackening pace. 

Still firm the hunter stood, 
Although his heart beat high ; 

Again the creature stopped, 
And gazed with wondering eye. 

The hunter met his gaze. 

Nor yet an inch gave way ; 
The bear turned slowly round, 

And slowly moved away. 

What thoughts were in his mind 

It would be hard to spell ; 
What thoughts were in George Nidiver 

I rather guess than tell. 



^P 



But sure that rifle's aim, 

Swift choice of generous part. 

Showed in his passing gleam 
The depths of a brave heart. 

Anontmotjs. 



Sonnets. 

LONDON, 1802. 

Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour ; 

England hath need of thee. She is a fen 

Of stagnant waters. Altar, sword, and pen, 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower. 
Have forfeited their ancient English dower 

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 

Oh, raise us up, return to us again. 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power ! 

Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart ; 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the 

sea; 
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, 
So didst thou travel on life's common way 

In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 

TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. 

ToussAiNT, the most unhappy man of men ! 
Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough 
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now 
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den, 
miserable chieftain ! where and when 
Wilt thou find patience ? Yet die not ; do 

thou 
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow. 
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again. 
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left be- 
hind 
Powers that will work for thee — air, earth, and 
skies. 
There 's not a breathing of the common 
wind 
That will forget thee. Thou hast great allies, 
Thy friends are exultations, agonies, 
And love, and man's unconquerable mind. 

William Wokdswobth. 



• / 



418 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



What constitutes a state ? 
Not high raised battlement or labored mound, 

Thick wall or moated gate ; 
Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned ; 

Not bays and broad-armed ports. 
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; 

Not starred and spangled courts, 
Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. 

No: — men, high-minded men. 
With powers as far above dull brutes endued. 

In forest, brake, or den, 
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude — 

Men who their duties know. 
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare main- 
tain. 

Prevent the long-aimed blow. 
And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain ; 

These constitute a state ; 
And sovereign law, that state's collected will. 

O'er thrones and globes elate. 
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. 

Smit by her sacred frown, 
The fiend. Dissension, like a vapor sinks ; 

And e'en the all-dazzling crown 
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. 

Such was this heaven-loved isle. 
Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore ! 

No more shall Freedom smile ? 
Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ? 

Since all must life resign. 
Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 

'Tis folly to decline. 
And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 

Sib William Jones. 



ODn Bust of SDante. 

See, from this counterfeit of him 

Whom Arno shall remember long, 
How stern of lineament, how grim. 

The father was of Tuscan song ! 

There but the burning sense of wrong. 
Perpetual care, and scorn, abide — 

Small friendship for the lordly throng, 
Distrust of all the world beside. 



Faithful if this wan image be. 

No dream his life was, but a fight ; 
Could any Beatrice see 

A lover in that anchorite ? 

To that cold Ghibelline's gloomy sight 
Who could have guessed the visions came 

Of beauty, veiled with heavenly light. 
In circles of eternal flame ? 

The lips as Cumse's cavern close, 
The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin, 

The rigid front, almost morose. 
But for the patient hope within, 
Declare a life whose course hath been 

Unsullied still, though still severe. 
Which, through the wavering days of sin, 

Kept itself icy-chaste and clear. 

Not wholly such his haggard look 

When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed, 
With no companion save his book. 

To Corvo's hushed monastic shade ; 

Where, as the Benedictine laid 
His palm upon the pilgrim guest. 

The single boon for which he prayed 
The convent's charity was rest. 

Peace dwells not here — this rugged face 

Betrays no spirit of repose ; 
The sullen warrior sole we trace. 

The marble man of many woes. 

Sucli was his mien when first arose 
The thought of that strange tale divine — 

When hell he peopled with his foes. 
The scourge of many a guilty line. 

War to the last he waged with all 

The tyrant canker-worms of earth ; 
Baron and duke, in hold and hall, 

Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth ; 

He used Rome's harlot for his mirth ; 
Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime ; 

But valiant souls of knightly worth 
Transmitted to the rolls of time. 

Time ! whose verdicts mock our own. 
The only righteous judge art thou ; 

That poor, old exile, sad and lone. 
Is Latium's other Virgil now. 



i 



THE PLACE WHERE MAN SHOULD DIE. 419 


Before his name the nations bow ; 


Charge once more, then, and be dumb ! 


His words are parcel of mankind, 


Let the victors, when they come. 


Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow, 


When the forts of folly fall. 


The marks have sunk of Dante's mind. 


Find thy body by the wall ! 


Thomas ■Wiluam Parsons. 


Matthew Abnold. 


®n Sermon against ©lorg. 


aije |)lace toljcre Man sl)Oulb JJDic. 


Come then, tell me, sage divine, 

Is it an offence to own 
That our bosoms e'er incline 

Toward immortal glory's throne ? 
For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure, 
Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure, 
So can fancy's dream rejoice. 
So conciliate reason's choice, 


How little recks it where men die, 

When once the moment's past 
In which the dim and glazing eye 

Has looked on earth its last ; 
Whether beneath the sculptured urn 

The coffined form shall rest. 
Or, in its nakedness, return 

Back to its mother's breast. 


As one approving word of her impartial voice. 


Death is a common friend or foe, 


If to spurn at noble praise 
Be the passport to thy heaven, 

Follow thou those gloomy ways — 
No such law to me was given ; 

Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me. 

Faring like my friends before me ; 

Nor an holier place desire 


As different men may hold. 
And at its summons each must go, 

The timid and the bold ; 
But when the spirit, free and warm, 

Deserts it, as it must, 
What matter where the lifeless form 

Dissolves again to dust ? 


Than Timoleon's arms acquire, 
And TuUy's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre. 


The soldier falls 'mid corses piled 
Upon the battle-plain. 


Mabk Akenside. 


Where reinless war-steeds gallop wild 
Above the gory slain : 


a;i)c Cast toorb. 

Creep into thy narrow bed. 


But though his corse be grim to see. 
Hoof-trampled on the sod. 

What recks it when the spii'it free 
Has soared aloft to God ! 


Creep, and let no more be said ! 
Vain thy onset ! all stands fast ; 
Thou thyself must break at last. 


The coward's dying eye may close 

Upon his downy bed. 
And softest hands his limbs compose, 


Let the long contention cease ! 
Geese are swans, and swans are geese. 
Let them have it how they will ! 
Thou art tired ; best be still. 


Or garments o'er him spread : 
But ye who shun the bloody fray 

Where fall the mangled brave. 
Go strip his coffin-lid away. 

And see him in his grave ! 


They out-talked thee, hissed thee, tore thee ? 
Better men fared thus before thee ; 


'Twere sweet indeed to close our eyes 
With those we cherish near. 


Fired their ringing shot and passed, 
Hotly charged — and sank at last. 


And, wafted upward by their sighs. 
Soar to some calmer sphere : 



420 POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 


But whether on the seafEold high, 


His brow was sad ; his eyes beneath 


Or in the battle's van, 


Flashed like a falchion from its sheath ; 


The fittest place where man can die 


And like a silver clarion rung 


Is where he dies for man. 


The accents of that unknown tongue — 


Michael Joseph Barrv. 


Excelsior ! 




In happy homes he saw the light 




Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; 


8i;i)fi IJilgritn. 


Above, the spectral glaciers shone. 


Who would true valor see, 


And from his lips escaped a groan — 
Excelsior ! 


Let him come hither ! 




One here will constant be, 


" Try not the pass," the old man said : 


Come wind, come weather ; 


" Dark lowers the tempest overhead ; 


There 's no discouragement 


The roaring torrent is deep and wide I " 


Shall make him once relent 


And loud that clarion voice replied, 


His first-avowed intent 


Excelsior ! 


To be a Pilgrim. 






" Oh stay," the maiden said, " and rest 


Whoso beset him round 


Thy weary head upon this breast ! " 


With dismal stories, 


A tear stood in his bright blue eye. 


Do but themselves confound ; 


But still he answered, with a sigh, 


His strength the more is. 


Excelsior ! 


No lion can him fright ; 




He'll with a giant fight ; 


" Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 


But he will have a right 


Beware the awful avalanche ! " 


To be a Pilgrim. 


This was the peasant's last good-night ; 




A voice replied, far up the height. 


Nor enemy, nor fiend, 


Excelsior ! 


Can daunt his spirit ; 




He knows he at the end 


At break of day, as heavenward 


Shall Life inherit : — 


The pious monks of Saint Bernard 


Then, fancies, fly away ; 


Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 


He'll not fear what men say ; 


A voice cried, through the startled air. 


He'll labor, night and day. 


Excelsior ! 


To be a Pilgrim. 

JOHK BXJKYAN. 


A traveller, by the faithful hound, 




Half-buried in the snow was found. 




Still grasping in his hand of ice 


(^%Zt\5\0X . 


That banner with the strange device. 
Excelsior ! 


The shades of night were falling fast. 


There in the twilight cold and gray, 


As through an Alpine village passed 


Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay. 


A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 


And from the sky, serene and far, 


A banner with the strange devi9e — 


A voice fell, like a falling star — 


Excelsior ! 


Excelsior ! 




Henry Wadsworth LoNcrELLO-w. 



i 



PART YI. 
POEMS OF COMEDY 



Oh ! never wear a brow of care, or frown with rueful gravity, 

For wit's the child of wisdom, and good humor is the twin ; 
No need to play the Pharisee, or groan at man's depravity, 

Let one man be a good man, and let all be fair within. 
Speak sober truths with smiling lips ; the bitter wrap in sweetness — 

Sound sense in seeming nonsense, as the grain is hid in chafE ; 
And fear not that the lesson e'er may seem to lack completeness — 

A man may say a wise thing, though he say it with a laugh. 

" A soft word oft turns wrath aside " (so says the great instructor), 

A smile disarms resentment, and a jest drives gloom away ; 
A cheerful laugh to anger is a magical conductor, 

The deadly flash averting, quickly changing night to day. 
Then, is not he the wisest man who rids his brow of wrinkles, 

Who bears his load with merry heart, and lightens it by half — 
Whose pleasant tones ring in the ear, as mirthful music tinkles, 

And whose words are true and telling, though they echo in a laugh ? 

So temper life's work — weariness with timely relaxation ; 

Most witless wight of all he is who never plays the fool ; 
The heart grows gray before the head, when sunk in sad prostration. 

Its winter knows no Christmas, with its glowing log of Yule. 
Why weep, faint-hearted and forlorn, when evil comes to try us ? 

The fount of hope wells ever nigh — 'twill cheer us if we quaff ; 
And, when the gloomy phantom of despondency stands by us, 

Let us, in calm defiance, exorcise it with a laugh ! 

Anontmous. 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



^\)t §eix of £inne. 

PAET riKST. 

Lithe and listen, gentlemen ; 

To sing a song I will begin : 
It is of a lord of fair Scotland, 

Which was the unthrifty heir of Linne. 

His father was a right good lord, 
His mother a lady of high degree ;• 

But they, alas ! were dead him fro. 
And he loved keeping company. 

To spend the day with merry cheer, 
To drink and revel every night, 

To card and dice from even to morn, 
It was, I ween, his heart's delight. 

To ride, to run, to rant, to roar, 
To always spend and never spare, 

I wot, an he were the king himself, 
Of gold and fee he might be bare. 

So fares the unthrifty heir of Linne, 
Till all his gold is gone and spent ; 

And he maun sell his lands so broad. 
His house, and lands, and all his rent. 

His father had a keen steward. 
And John o' Scales was called he ; 

But John is become a gentleman. 
And John has got both gold and fee. 



Says, " Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne ; 

Let nought disturb thy heavy cheer ; 
If thou wilt sell thy lands so broad. 

Good store of gold I'll give thee here." 

" My gold is gone, my money is spent, 
My land now take it unto thee : 

Give me the gold, good John o' Scales, 
And thine for aye my land shaU be." 

Then John he did him to record draw, 
And John he gave him a god's-penny ; 

But for every pound that John agreed, 
The land, I wis, was well worth three. 

He told him the gold upon the board ; 

He was right glad the land to win : 
" The land is mine, the gold is thine. 

And now I'll be the lord of Linne." 

Thus he hath sold his land so broad ; 

Both hill and holt, and moor and fen. 
All but a poor and lonesome lodge. 

That stood far off in a lonely glen. 

For so he to his father hight : 

" My son, when I am gone," said he, 

" Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad. 
And thou wilt spend thy gold so free ; 

" But swear me now upon the rood. 
That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend. 

For when all the world doth frown on thee, 
Thou there shalt find a faithful friend." 



434 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



The heir of Linne is full of gold ; 

And, " Come with me, my friends," said he : 
" Let's drink, and rant, and merry make, 

And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee." 

They ranted, drank, and merry made. 

Till all his gold it waxed thin ; 
And then his friends they slunk away ; 

They left the unthrifty heir of Linne. 

He had never a penny left in his purse. 

Never a penny left but three ; 
The one was brass, the other was lead, 

And t'other it was white money. 

" Now well-a-way ! " said the heir of Linne, 
" Now well-a-way, and woe is me ! 

For when I was the lord of Linne, 
1 never wanted gold nor fee. 

" But many a trusty friend have I, 
And why should I feel dole or care ? 

I'll borrow of them all by turns, 
So need I not be ever bare." 

But one, I wis, was not at home ; 

Another had paid his gold away ; 
Another called him thriftless loon. 

And sharply bade him wend his way. 

" Now well-a-way ! " said the heir of Linne, 
" Now weU-a-way, and woe is me ! 

For when I had my lands so broad, 
On me they lived right merrily. 

" To beg my bread from door to door, 

I wis, it were a burning shame : 
To rob and steal it were a sin : 

To work my limbs I cannot frame. 

" Now I'll away to the lonesome lodge. 
For there my father bade me wend : 

When all the world should frown on me, 
I there should find a trusty friend." 

PART SECOND. 

Away then hied the heir of Linne, 
O'er hill and holt, and moor and fen, 

Until he came to the lonesome lodge. 
That stood so low in a lonely glen. 



He looked up, he looked down, 
In hope some comfort for to win ; 

But bare and lothely were the walls : 

" Here's sorry cheer ! " quoth the heir of 
Linne. 

The little window, dim and dark, 
"Was hung with ivy, brier, and yew ; 

No shimmering sun here ever shone ; 
No halesome breeze here ever blew. 

No chair, no table, he mote spy. 
No cheerful hearth, no welcome bed. 

Nought save a rope with a running noose, 
That dangling hung up o'er his head. 

And over it, in broad letters, 

These words were written, so plain to see : 
" Ah ! graceless wretch, hath spent thy all. 

And brought thyself to penury? 

" All this my boding mind misgave, 
I therefore left this trusty friend : 

Now let it shield thy foul disgrace, 
And aU thy shame and sorrows end." 

Sorely vexed with this rebuke. 

Sorely vexed was the heir of Linne ; 

His heart, I wis, was near to burst, 
With guilt and sorrow, shame and sin. 

Never a word spake the heir of Linne, 
Never a word he spake but three : 

" This is a trusty friend indeed. 
And is right welcome unto me." 

Then round his neck the cord he drew, 
And sprung aloft with his body; 

When lo ! the ceiling burst in twain. 
And to the ground came tumbling he. 

Astonished lay the heir of Linne, 
Nor knew if he were live or dead ; 

At length he looked and saw a bill, 
And in it a key of gold so red. 

He took the bill and looked it on ; 

Straight good comfort found he there : 
It told him of a hole in the wall 

In which there stood three chests in-fere. 



TEE EEIR OF LINNE. 



425 



Two were full of the beaten gold ; 

The third was full of white money ; 
And over them, in broad letters, 

These words were written so plain to see : 

" Once more, my son, I set thee clear ; 

Amend thy life and follies past ; 
For, but thou amend thee of thy life. 

That rope must be thy end at last." 

" And let it be," said the heir of Linne, 

" And let it be, but if I amend : 
For here I will make mine avow, 

This reade shall guide me to the end." 

Away then went the heir of Linne, 
Away he went with merry cheer ; 

I wis he neither stint nor stayed. 
Till John o' the Scales' house he came near. 

And when he came to John o' the Scales, 

Up at the spere then looked he ; 
There sat three lords at the board's end, 

"Were drinking of the wine so free. 

Then up bespoke the heir of Linne ; 

To John o' the Scales then could he :' 
" I pray thee now, good John o' the Scales, 

One forty pence for to lend me." 

" Away, away, thou thriftless loon ! 

Away, away ! this may not be : 
For a curse be on xaj head," he said, 

" If ever I lend thee one penny." 

Then bespoke the heir of Linne, 

To John o' the Scales' wife then spake he : 
" Madam, some alms on me bestow, 

1 pray, for sweet Saint Charity." 

" Away, away, thou thriftless loon ! 

I swear thou gettest no alms of me ; 
For if we should hang any losel here. 

The first we would begin with thee." 

Then up bespoke a good fellow 

Which sat at John o' the Scales his board : 
Said, " Turn again, thou heir of Linne ; 

Some time thou was a well good lord : 



" Some time a good fellow thou hast been, 
And sparedst not thy gold and fee ; 

Therefore I'll lend thee forty pence, 
And other forty if need be. 

" And ever I pray thee, John o' the Scales, 

To let him sit in thy company ; 
For well I wot thou hadst his land. 

And a good bargain it was to thee." 

Then up bespoke him John o' the Scales, 
All woode he answered him again : 

" Now a ciirse be on my head," he said, 
" But I did lose by that bargain. 

" And here I proffer thee, heir of Linne, 
Before these lords so fair and free. 

Thou shalt have't back again better cheap. 
By a hundred merks, than I had it of thee." 

" I draw you to record, lords," he said ; 

With that he gave him a god's-penny : 
" Now, by my fay," said the heir of Linne, 

" And here, good John, is thy money." 

And he pulled forth the bags of gold. 
And laid them down upon the board ; 

All wo-begone was John o' the Scales, 
So vexed he could say never a word. 

He told him forth the good red gold, 
He told it forth with mickle din ; 

" The gold is thine, the land is mine. 
And now I'm again the lord of Linne ! " 

Says, " Have thou here, thou good fellow ; 

Forty pence thou didst lend me ; 
Now I'm again the lord of Linne, 

And forty pounds I will give thee." 

" Now well-a-way ! " quoth Joan o' the Scales, 
" Now well-a-way, and wo is my life ! 

Yesterday I was lady of Linne, 
Now I'm but John o' the Scales his wife." 

" Now fare-thee-well," said the heir of Linne, 
" Farewell, good John o' the Scales," said he ; 

" When next I want to sell my land, 
Good John o' the Scales, I'll come to thee." 

AXOKTMOTJS. 



426 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Hing Iol)n anb tl}e !l.bbot of Clontcr- 
burg. 

An ancient story I'll tell you anon 
Of a notable prince that was called King John : 
And he ruled England with main and with might, 
For he did great wrong and maintained little right. 

And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry 
Concerning the Abbot ol Canterbury ; 
How for his house-keeping and high renown, 
They rode poste for him to fair London towne. 

An hundred men the king did heare say 
The abbot kept in his house every day ; 
And fifty golde chaynes without any doubt 
In velvet coates waited the abbot about. 

" How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee. 
Thou keepest a farre better house than me ; 
And for thy house-keeping and high renown, 
I feare thou work'st treason against my crown." 

" My liege," quo' the abbot, " I would it were knowne 
I never spend nothing but what is my owne ; 
And 1 trust your grace will doe me no deere, 
For spending of my owne true-gotten geere." 

" Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, 
And now for the same thou needest must dye ; 
For except thou canst answer me questions three. 
Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie. 

"And first," quo' the king, "when I'm in this 

stead. 
With my crowne of golde so faire on my head. 
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe. 
Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe. 

" Secondly, tell me, without any doubt, 
How soone I may ride the whole world about ; 
And at the third question thou must not shrink. 
But tell me here truly what I do th&k." 

" these are hard questions for my shallow witt. 
Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet : 
But if you will give me but three weeks' space, 
I'll do my endeavor to answer your grace." 



" Now three weeks' space to thee wUl I give, 
And that is the longest time thou hast to live ; 
For if thou dost not answer my questions three, 
Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee." 

Away rode the abbot all sad at that word, 
And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford ; 
But never a doctor there was so wise, 
That could with his learning an answer devise. 

Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold. 
And he met his shepheard a-going to fold : 
" How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home ; 
What newes do you bring us from good King John f 

" Sad news, sad news, shepheard, I must give, 
That I have but three days more to live ; 
For if I do not answer him questions three, 
My head wUl be smitten from my bodie. 

" The first is to tell him, there in that stead, 
With his crowne of golde so fair on his head, 
Among all his liege-men so noble of birth, 
To within one penny of what he is worth. 

" The seeonde, to tell him, without any doubt, 
How soone he may ride this whole world about ; 
And at the third question I must not shrinke, 
But tell him there truly what he does thinke." 

" Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, 
That a fool he may learne a wise man witt ? 
Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel. 
And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel. 

" Nay, frowne not, if it hath bin told unto me, 
I am like your lordship, as ever may be ; 
And if you will but lend me your gowne. 
There is none shall know us at fair London towne." 

" Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, 
With sumptuous array most gallant and brave. 
With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope, 
Pit to appear 'fore our fader the pope." 

" Now welcome, sire abbot," the king he did say, 
" 'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day : 
For and if thou canst answer my questions three. 
Thy life and thy living both Saved shall be. 



THE DRAGON OF WANTLEY. 



427 



" And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, 
With my crowne of golde so fair on my head. 
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, 
Tell me to one penny what I am worth." 

" For thirty pence our Saviour was sold 
Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told : 
And twenty-nine is the worth of thee. 
For I think thou art one penny worser than he." 

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, 
" I did not think I had been worth so littel ! 

— Now secondly tell me, without any doubt. 
How soone I may ride this whole world about. 

" You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same 
Until the next morning he riseth againe ; 
And then your grace need not make any doubt 
But in twenty-four hours you'U ride it about." 

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, 
" I did not think it could be gone so soone ! 

— Now from the third question thou must not 

shrinke. 
But teU me here truly what I do thinke." 

" Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry ; 
You thinke I'm the abbot of Canterbury ; 
But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, 
That have come to beg pardon for him and for me." 

The king he laughed, and swore by the Masse, 
" I'll make thee lord abbot this day in his place ! " 
" Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede. 
For alaeke I can neither write ne reade." 

" Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee. 
For this merry jest thou liast showne unto me ; 
And teU the old abbot when thou comest home. 
Thou has brought him a pardon from good King 

John. AUONTMOTJS. 



9ri)e tUragon of tDantics. 

Old stories tell how Hercules 

A dragon slew at Lerna, 
With seven heads and fourteen eyes, 

To see and well discern-a ; 



But he had a club this dragon to drub. 
Or he ne'er had done it, I warrant ye ; 

But More, of More-hall, with nothing at all, 
He slew the dragon of Wantley. 

This dragon had two furious wings, 

Each one iipon each shoulder ; 
With a sting in his tail as long as a flail, 

Which made him bolder and bolder. 
He had long claws, and in his jaws 

Four-and-forty teeth of iron ; 
With a hide as tough as any buff, 

Which did him round environ. 

Have you not heard how the Trojan horse 

Held seventy men in his belly ? 
This dragon was not quite so big, 

But very near, I'll tell ye ; 
Devoured he poor children three, 

That could not with him grapple ; 
And at one sup he ate them up, 

As one would eat an apple. 

All sorts of cattle this dragon would eat. 

Some say he ate up trees. 
And that the forests sure he would 

Devour up by degrees ; 
For houses and churches were to him geese and 
turkeys ; 

He ate all and left none behind. 
But some stones, dear Jack, that he could not 
crack. 

Which on the hills you will find. 

Hard by a furious knight there dwelt ; 

Men, women, girls, and boys. 
Sighing and sobbing, came to his lodging. 

And made a hideous noise. 
Oh, save us all. More of More-hall, 

Thou peerless knight of these woods ; 
Do but slay this dragon, who won't leave us a rag on, 

We'll give thee all our goods. 

This being done, he did engage 

To hew the dragon down ; 
But first he went new armor to 

Bespeak at Sheffield town ; 
With spikes all about, not within but without, 

Of steel so sharp and strong, 



428 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Both behind and before, legs, arms, and all o'er, 
Some five or six inches long. 

Had you but seen him in this dress. 

How fierce he looked, and how big, 
You would have thought him for to be 

Some Egyptian porcupig : 
He frighted all cats, dogs, and all, 

Each cow, each horse, and each hog ; 
For fear they did flee, for they took him to be 

Some strange, outlandish hedge-hog. 

To see this fight all people then 

Got up on trees and houses. 
On churches some, and chimneys too ; 

But these put on their trousers, 
Not to spoil their hose. As soon as he rose. 

To make him strong and mighty, 
He drank, by the tale, six pots of ale, 

And a quart of aqua-vitte. 

It is not strength that always wins, 

For wit doth strength excel ; 
Which made our cunning champion 

Creep down into a well, 
Where he did think this dragon would drink, 

And so he did in truth ; 
And as he stooped low, he rose up and cried, boh ! 

And kicked him in the mouth. 

Oh ! quoth the dragon, with a deep sigh, 

And turned six times together. 
Sobbing and tearing, cursing and swearing 

Out of his throat of leather. 
More of More-hall, oh thou rascal ! 

Would I had seen thee never ! 
With the thing at thy foot thou hast pricked my 
throat. 

And I'm quite undone forever ! 

Murder, murder ! the dragon cried, 

Alack, alack, for grief ! 
Had you but missed that place, you could 

Have done me no mischief. 
Then his head he shaked, trembled, "and quaked. 

And down he lay and cried ; 
First on one knee, then on back tumbled he, 

So groaned, and kicked, and died. 

Old Ballad. (English.) 

Version of Coventry Patmore. 



®ooir ^le. 

I CANNOT eat but little meat — 

My stomach is not good ; 
But sure I think that I can drink 

With him that wears a hood. 
Though I go bare, take ye no care ; 

I am nothing a-cold — 
I stuff my skin so full within 

Of Jolly good ale and old. 

Bach and side go bare, go bare ; 
Both foot and hand go cold ; 

But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, 
Wliether it be new or old ! 

I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, 

And a crab laid in the fire ; 
A little bread shall do me stead — 

Much bread I not desire. 
No frost nor snow, nor wind, I trow, 

Can hurt me if I wold — 
I am so wrapt, and thorowly lapt 

Of jolly good ale and old. 

And Tyb, my wife, that as her life 

Loveth well good ale to seek, 
Full oft drinks she, till you may see 

The tears run down her cheek ; 
Then doth she trowl to me the bowl. 

Even as a malt-worm should ; 
And saith, " Sweetheart, I took my part 

Of this jolly good ale and old." 

Now let them drink till they nod and wink, 

Even as good fellows should do ; 
They shall not miss to have the bliss 

Good ale doth bring men to ; 
And all poor souls that have scoured bowls,' 

Or have them lustily trowled, 
God save the lives of them and their wives. 
Whether they be young or old ! 
Back and side go bare, go bare; 

Both foot and hand go cold ; 
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, 
Whether it be new or old ! 

John Still. 



TAKE THY OLD CLOAKE ABOUT THEE. 429 


Q[|)e Social Btggar. 


SCak^ tl}s ©li> (Eloake about ©Ijee. 


There was a jovial beggar, 


This winter weather it waxeth cold. 


He had a wooden leg, 


And frost doth freese on every hill ; 


Lame from his cradle, 


And Boreas blows his blastes so cold 


And forced for to beg. 


That all ur cattell are like to spill. 


And a-begging we tvill go. 


Bell, my wife, who loves no strife, 


Will go, will go. 
And a-begging we will go. 


Shee sayd unto me quietlye. 


Rise up, and save cowe Crumbocke's life — 




Man, put thy old cloake about thee. 


A bag for his oatmeal. 




Another for his salt. 


HE. 


And a long pair of crutches. 


Bell, why dost thou flyte and scorne ? 


To show that he can halt. 


Thou kenst my cloake is very thin ; 




It is so bare and overworne 


A bag for his wheat, 


A cricke he thereon can not renn. 


Another for his rye, 


Then He no longer borrowe or lend. 


And a little bottle by his side, 


For once He new apparelled be ; 


To drink when he's a-diy. 


To morrow He to towne, and spend, 




For He have a new cloake about me. 


Seven years I begged 




For my old master Wilde, 




He taught me how to beg 


SHE. 


When I was but a child. 


Cow Crumbocke is a very good cow — 




She has been alwayes true to the payle ; 


I begged for my master, 


She has helped us to butter and cheese, I trow. 


And got him store of pelf, 


And other things she will not fayle ; 


But goodness now be praised. 


I wold be loth to see her pine ; 


I'm begging for myself. 


Good husbande, counsel take of me — 




It is not for us to go so fine ; 


In a hoUow tree 


Man, take thy old cloake about thee. 


I live, and pay no rent. 




Providence provides for me, 


HE. 


And I am well content. 






My cloake, it was a very good cloake — 


Of all the occupations 


It hath been alwayes trae to the weare ; 


A beggar's is the best, 


But now it is not worth a groat ; 


For whenever he's a-weary. 


I have had it f our-and-forty yeare. 


He can lay him down to rest. 


Sometime it was of cloth in graine ; 




'Tis now but a sigh clout as you may see ; 


I fear no plots against me. 


It will neither hold nor winde nor raine — 


I live in open ceU ; 


And He have a new cloake about me. 


Then who would be a king, lads. 




When the beggar lives so well? 


SHE. 


And a-begging we will go, 


It is four-and-foi-ty yeeres ago 


Will go, will go. 


Since the one of us the other did ken ; 


And a-begging we will go. 


And we have had betwixt us towe 


Anontmous. 


Of children either nine or ten ; 



430 POEMS OF COMEDY. 


We have brought them up to women and men — 


For Trinity feast is over, 


In the fere of God I trowe they be ; 


And has brought no news from Dover ; 


And why wilt thou thyself misken — 


And Easter is past, moreover. 


Man, take thy old cloake about thee. 


And Malbrouck still delays. 


HK, 


Milady in her watch-tower 


Bell, my wife, why dost thou fioute ? 


Spends many a pensive hour. 


Now is now, and then was then ; 


Not knowing why or how her 


Seeke now all the world throughout. 


Dear lord from England stays. 


Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen ; 


While sitting quite forlorn in 


They are clad in blacke, greene, yellowe, or gray. 


That tower, she spies returning 


So far above their own degree — 


A page clad in deep mourning, 


Once in my life lie do as they, 


With fainting steps and slow. 


For He have a new cloake about me. 


o iT 




" page, prythee, come faster ! 


SHE. 


What news do you bring of your master ? 


King Stephen was a worthy peere — 


I fear there is some disaster — 


His breeches cost him but a crowne ; 


Your looks are so full of woe." 


He held them sixpence all too deere. 




Therefore he called the tailor loon. 


" The news I bring, fair lady," 


He was a wight of high renowne. 


With sorrowful accent said he, 


And thou'se but of a low degree — 


" Is one you are not ready 


It's pride that puts this countrye downe ; 


So soon, alas ! to hear. 


Man, take thy old cloake about thee. 






" But since to speak I'm hurried," 


HE. 


Added this page quite flurried. 




" Malbrouck is dead and buried ! " 


Bell, my wife, she loves not strife. 


— And here he shed a tear. 


Yet she will lead me if she can ; 




And oft to live a quiet life 


" He 's dead ! he 's dead as a herring I 


I'm forced to yield though I be good-man. 


For I beheld his berring. 


It 's not for a man with a woman to threepe. 


And four officers transferring 


Unless he first give o'er the plea ; 


His corpse away from the field. 


As we began sae will we leave, 


* A ./ 


And He tak my old cloake about me. 


" One officer carried his sabre ; 


Anonymous. 


And he carried it not without labor. 




Much envying his next neighbor, 




Who only bore a shield. 


iHalbrouck. 


" The third was helmet-bearer — 




That helmet which on its wearer 


Malbeouck, the prince of commanders. 


Pilled all who saw with terror, 


Is gone to the war in Flanders ; 


And covered a hero's brains. 


His fame is like Alexander's ; 




But when will he come Home ? 


" Now, having got so far, I 




Find, that — by the Lord Harry ! — 


Perhaps at Trinity feast ; or 


The fourth is left nothing to carry ; — 


Perhaps he may come at Easter. 


So there the thing remains." 


Egad ! he had better make haste, or 


Anontmotts. (French.) 


"We fear he may never come. 


Translation of Father Phout. 



THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER. 



431 



®l)C ®lb anb f oung QTourtier. 

An old song made by an aged old pate, 

Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great 

estate, 
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful 

rate. 
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate ; 
Like an old courtier of the queen's, 
And the queen^s old courtier. 

With an old lady, whose anger one word as- 
suages ; 

They every quarter paid their old servants their 
wages. 

And never knew what belonged to coachmen, foot- 
men, nor pages, 

But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and 
badges ; 
Like an, old courtier of the queen's, 
And the queen's old courtier. 

With an old study filled fuU of learned old 

books ; 
With an old reverend chaplain — you might know 

him by his looks ; 
With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the 

hooks ; 
And an old kitchen that maintained half a dozen 

old cooks ; 
Like an old courtier of the queen's, 
And the queen's old courtier. 

With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and 

bows. 
With old swords and bucklers, that had borne many 

shrewd blows ; 
And an old frieze coat, to cover his worship's trunk 

hose. 
And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper 

nose; 
I/ike cm old courtier of the queen's, 
And the queen's old courtier. 

With a good old fashion, when Christmas was 

come. 
To call in all his old neighbors with bagpipe and 

drum; 



With good cheer enough to furnish every old room. 
And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man 
dumb; 

Like an old cow-tier of the queen's, 

And the queen's old courtier. 

With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of 

hounds. 
That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own 

grounds ; 
Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own 

bounds. 
And when he dyed, gave every child a thousand 

good pounds ; 
Like an old courtier of the queen's, 
And the queen's old courtier. 

But to his eldest son his house and land he assigned. 
Charging him in his will to keep the old bountiful 

mind — 
To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbors 

be kind ; 
But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was 
inclined. 
Like a young courtier of the king's, 
And the king's young courtier. 

Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to 
his land. 

Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his com- 
mand; 

And takes up a thousand pound upon his father's 
land ; 

And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go 
nor stand ; 

Like a young cowtier of the ki7ig's, 
And the king's young courtier. 

With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and 
spare, 

Who never knew what belonged to good housekeep- 
ing or care ; 

Who buys gaudy-colored fans to play with wanton 
air. 

And seven or eight different dressings of other 
women's hair ; 

Like a young courtier of the king's. 
And the king's young courtier. 



433 



POEMS OF C03IEDY. 



With a new-fashioned hall, built where the old one 
stood, 

Hung round with new pictures, that do the poor 
no good ; 

With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither 
coal nor wood ; 

And a new smooth shovelboard, whereon no vic- 
tuals ne'er stood ; 
Like a young courtier of the hinges, 
And the king's young courtier. 

With a new study, stuft full of pamphlets and 

plays ; 
And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he 

prays ; 
With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four 

or five days. 
And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws, 

and toys ; 
Like a young courtier of the king's, 
And the king's young courtier. 

With a new fashion when Christmas is drawing 

on — 
On a new journey to London straight we all must 

be gone, 
And leave none to keep house, but our new porter 

John, 
Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back 

with a stone ; 
Like a young courtier of the king's, 
And the king's young courtier. 

With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage is 

complete ; 
With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry 

up the meat ; 
With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dressing is 

very neat — 
Who, when her lady has dined, lets the servants 

not eat ; 
Like a young courtier of the king's, 
And the king's young courtiei;. 

With new titles of honor bought with his father's 

old gold. 
For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are 

sold: 



And this is the course most of our new gallants 

hold, 
Which makes that good housekeeping is now grown 
so cold 
Among the young courtiers of the king 
Or the king's young courtiers. 

Anonymous. 



^n ©legs on tl)e JUeatl) of a HXiab SDog. 

Good people all, of every sort. 

Give ear unto my song ; 
And if you find it wond'rous short 

It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man. 
Of whom the world might say 

That stm a godly race he ran. 
Whene'er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 

To comfort friends and foes ; 
The naked every day he clad. 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found, 

As many dogs there be. 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound. 

And curs of low degree. 

This dog and man at first were friends. 

But when a pique began. 
The dog, to gain his private ends, 

Went mad, and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighboring streets 
The wandering neighbors ran. 

And swore the dog had lost his wits, 
To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seemed both sore and sad 

To every Christian eye : 
And while they swore the dog was mad. 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 
That showed the rogues they lied : 

The man recovered of the bite. 
The dog it was that died. 

, Oliver Goldsmith. 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. 



433 



a:i)c Eape of tl)c Cock. 

AN HEROI-COMICAL POEM. 

Noluerara, Belinda, tuos violare capillos ; 

Sed juvat hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis. — Martial. 



What dire offence from amorous causes springs, 
What mighty contests rise from trivial things, 
I sing — This verse to Caryl, muse ! is due ; 
This, e'en Belinda may vouchsafe to view : 
Slight is the subject, but not so the praise. 
If she inspire, and he approve my lays. 

Say what strange motive, goddess ! could com- 
pel 
A well-bred lord t' assault a gentle belle ? 
Oh, say what stranger cause, yet unexplored. 
Could make a gentle belle reject a lord? 
In tasks so bold can little men engage, 
And in soft bosoms dwell such mighty rage 1 

Sol through white curtains shot a timorous ray. 
And ope'd those eyes that must eclipse the day. 
Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake. 
And sleepless lovers just at twelve awake ; 
Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knocked the 

ground. 
And the pressed watch returned a silver sound. 
Belinda still her downy pillow prest — 
Her guardian sylph prolonged the balmy rest : 
'Twas he had summoned to her silent bed 
The morning-dream that hovered o'er her head : 
A youth more glittering than a birthnight beau 
(That e'en in slumber caused her cheek to glow,) 
Seemed to her ear his winning lips to lay, 
And thus in whispers said, or seemed to say : 

" Fairest of mortals, thoii distinguished care 
Of thousand bright inhabitants of air ! 
If e'er one vision touched thy infant thought 
Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught. 
Of airy elves by moonlight-shadows seen, 
The silver token, and the circled green ; 
Or virgins visited by angel powers 
With golden crowns and wreaths of heavenly flow- 
ers — 
Hear and believe ! thy own importance know, 
Nor bound thy narrow views to things below. 
Some secret truths, from learned pride concealed. 
To maids alone and children are revealed ; 
30 



What though no credit doubting wits may give ? 

The fair and innocent shall still believe. 

Know, then, unnumbered spirits round thee fly — 

The light militia of the lower sky ; 

These, though unseen, are ever on the wing. 

Hang o'er the box, and hover round the ring. 

Think what an equipage thou hast in air. 

And view with scorn two pages and a chair. 

As now your own, our beings were of old, 

And once enclosed in woman's beauteous mould ; 

Thence, by a soft transition, we repair 

Prom earthly vehicles to these of air. 

Think not, when woman's transient breath is fled. 

That all her vanities at once are dead ; 

Succeeding vanities she still regards. 

And, though she plays no more, o'erlooks the 

cards. 
Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive. 
And love of ombre, after death survive ; 
For when the fair in all their pride expire. 
To their first elements their souls retire ; 
The sprites of fiery termagant in flame 
Mount up, and take a salamander's name ; 
Soft yielding minds to water glide away. 
And sip, with nymphs, their elemental tea ; 
The graver prude sinks downward to a gnome 
In search of mischief still on earth to roam ; 
The light coquettes in sylphs aloft repair, 
And sport and flutter in the fields of air. 

" Know further yet ; whoever fair and chaste 
Rejects mankind, is by some sylph embraced : 
For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease 
Assume what sexes and what shapes they please. 
What guards the purity of melting maids. 
In courtly balls and midnight masquerades. 
Safe from the treacherous friend, the daring spark. 
The glance by day, the whisper in the dark — 
When kind occasion prompts their warm desires. 
When music softens, and when dancing fires ? 
'Tis but their sylph, the wise celestials know. 
Though honor is the word with men below. 
" Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their 

face. 
For life predestined to the gnome's embrace ; 
These swell their prospects and exalt their pride. 
When offers are disdained, and love denied ; 
Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain, 
While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping 

train, 



434 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



And garters, stars, and coronets appear, 

And in soft sounds, ' Your grace,' salutes their 

ear. 
'Tis these that early taint the female soul, 
Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll ; 
Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to know, 
And little hearts to flutter at a beau. 

" Oft when the world imagine women stray, 
The sylphs through mystic mazes guide their way ; 
Through all the giddy circle they pursue. 
And old impertinence expel by new. 
What tender maid but must a victim fall 
To one man's treat, but for another's ball? 
When Plorio speaks, what virgin could withstand, 
If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand ? 
With varying vanities from every part 
They shift the moving toy-shop of their heart ; 
Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword- 
knots strive. 
Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive. 
This erring mortals levity may call — 
Oh, blind to truth ! the sylphs contrive it all. 

" Of these am I, who thy protection claim ; 
A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name. 
Late, as I ranged the crystal wilds of air, 
In the clear mirror of thy ruling star, 
I saw, alas ! some dread event impend. 
Ere to the main this morning's sun descend ; 
But heaven reveals not what, or how, or where : 
Warned by the sylph, pious maid, beware ! 
This to disclose is all thy guardian can ; 
Beware of all, but most beware of man ! " 

He said ; when Shock, who thought she slept too 
long. 
Leaped up, and waked his mistress with his tongue. 
'Twas then, Belinda, if report say true. 
Thy eyes first opened on a billet-doux ; 
Wounds, charms, and ardors, were no sooner read. 
But all the vision vanished from thy head. ■ 

And now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed, 
Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 
First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores. 
With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. 
A heavenly image in the glass app&rs — 
To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears ; 
Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side. 
Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. 
Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here 
The various offerings of the world appear ; 



From each she nicely culls with curious toil. 
And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil. 
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks. 
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. 
The tortoise here and elephant unite. 
Transformed to combs — the speckled, and the 

white. 
Here files of pins extend their shining rows ; 
Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billets-doux. 
Now awful beauty puts on all its arms ; 
The fair each moment rises in her charms, 
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, 
And calls forth all the wonders of her face ; 
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, 
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
The busy sylphs surround their darling care. 
These set the head, and these divide the hair ; 
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown ; 
And Betty 's praised for labors not her own. 

CANTO II. 

Not with more glories, in the ethereal plain. 
The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, 
Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams 
Laimched on the bosom of the silver Thames. 
Fair nymphs and well-dressed youths around her 

shone. 
But every eye was fixed on her alone. 
On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, 
Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore ; 
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose — 
Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those ; 
Favors to none, to all she smiles extends ; 
Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike ; 
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. 
Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, 
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide : 
If to her share some female errors fall. 
Look on her face, and you'll forget them all. 

This nymph, to the destruction of mankind. 
Nourished two locks, which graceful hung behind 
In equal curls, and well conspired to deck 
With shining ringlets the smooth, ivory neck. 
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains. 
And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. 
With hairy springes we the birds betray ; 
Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey ; 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. 



435 



Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare, 
And beauty draws us with a single liair. 

Th' adventurous baron the bright locks admired ; 
He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired, 
Resolved to win, he meditates the way, 
By force to ravish, or by fraud betray ; 
For when success a lover's toil attends, 
Few ask if fraud or force attained his ends. 

For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implored 
Propitious heaven, and every power adored ; 
But chieily love — to love an altar built, 
Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt. 
There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves, 
And all the trophies of his former loves ; 
With tender billets-doux he lights the pyre. 
And breathes three amorous sighs to raise the fire. 
Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes 
Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize. 
The powers gave ear, and granted half his prayer ; 
The rest the winds dispersed in empty air. 

But now secure the painted vessel glides, 
The sunbeams trembling on the floating tides ; 
Wliile melting music steals upon the sky. 
And softened sounds along the waters die : 
Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, 
Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay. 
All but the sylph — with careful thoughts opprest, 
Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast. 
He summons straight his denizens of air ; 
The lucid squadrons round the sails repair ; 
Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe. 
That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath. 
Some to the sun their insect-wings unfold. 
Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold. 
Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight. 
Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light ; 
Loose to the winds their airy garments flew — 
Thin, glittering textures of the filmy dew, 
Dipt in the richest tincture of the skies, 
Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes ; 
While every beam now transient colors flings, 
Colors that change whene'er they wave their wings. 
Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, 
Superior by the head, was Ariel placed ; 
His purple pinions opening to the sun, 
He raised his azure wand, and thus begun ; 

"Ye sylphs and sylphids, to your chief give 
ear ! 
Fays, fairies, genii, elves, and demons, hear ! 



Ye know the spheres and various tasks assigned 
By laws eternal to the aerial kind : 
Some in the fields of purest ether play. 
And bask and whiten in the blaze of day ; 
Some guide the course of wandering orbs on high, 
Or roll the planets through the boundless sky ; 
Some, less refined, beneath the moon's pale light 
Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, 
Or suck the mists in grosser air below. 
Or dip their pinions in the painted bow. 
Or bi-ew fierce tempests on the wintry main, 
Or o'er the glebe distill the kindly rain ; 
Others, on earth, o'er human race preside, 
Watch all their ways, and aR their actions guide ; 
Of these the chief the care of nations own. 
And guard with arms divine the British throne. 

" Our humbler province is to tend the fair. 
Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care ; 
To save the powder from too rude a gale, 
Nor let th' imprisoned essences exhale ; 
To draw fresh colors from the vernal flowers ; 
To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in showers, 
A brighter wash ; to curl their waving hairs. 
Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs ; 
Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow. 
To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. 

" This day black omens threat the brightest fair 
That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care ; 
Some dire disaster, or by force or slight ; 
But what, or where, the fates have wrapped in 

night — 
Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law. 
Or some frail china jar receive a flaw ; 
Or stain her honor, or her new brocade ; 
Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade ; 
Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball ; 
Or whether heaven has doomed that Shock must 

fall — 
Haste, then, ye spirits ! to your charge repair : 
The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care ; 
The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign ; 
And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine ; 
Do thou, Crispissa, tend her favorite lock : 
Ariel himself shaU be the guard of Shock. 

" To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note, 
We trust the important charge, the petticoat — 
Oft have we known that seven-fold fence to fail, 
Though stiif with hoops, and armed with ribs of 
whale — 



436 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Form a strong line about the silver bound, 
And guard the wide circumference around. 

" Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, 
His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large. 
Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins, 
Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins. 
Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie, 
Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin's eye ; 
Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain. 
While clogged he beats his silken wings in vain ; 
Or alum styptics with contracting power 
Shrink his thin essence like a rivalled flower ; 
Or, as Ixion fixed, the wretch shall feel 
The giddy motion of the whirling miU ; 
In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow. 
And tremble at the sea that froths below ! " 

He spoke ; the spirits from the sails descend ; 
Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend ; 
Some thread the mazy ringlets of her hair; 
Some hang upon the pendants of her ear ; 
With beating hearts the dire event they wait, 
Anxious, and trembling for the birth of fate. 

CANTO III. 

Close by those meads, for ever crowned with flowers, 
Where Thames with pride surveys his rising towers, 
There stands a structure of majestic frame, 
Which from the neighboring Hampton takes its 

name. 
Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom 
Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at home ; 
Here, thou, great Anna ! whom three realms obey, 
Dost sometimes counsel take — and sometimes tea. 

Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, 
To taste awhUe the pleasures of a court ; 
In various talk the instructive hours they past ; 
Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last ; 
One speaks the glory of the British queen : 
And one describes a charming Indian screen ■; 
A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes — 
At every word a reputation dies ; 
Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, 
With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. 

Meanwhile, declining from the ncfon of day. 
The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray ; 
The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, 
And wretches hang that jurymen may dine ; 
The merchant from the Exchange returns in peace, 
And the long labors of the toilet cease. 



Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites. 
Burns to encounter two adventurous knights 
At ombre singly to decide their doom. 
And swells her breast with conquests yet to come. 
Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join, 
Each band the niimber of the sacred nine. 
Soon as she spreads her hand, the aerial guard 
Descend, and sit on each important card : 
First Ariel perched upon a matadore. 
Then each according to the rank they bore ; 
For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race, 
Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. 

Behold ; four kings in majesty revered, 
With hoary whiskers and a forky beard ; 
And four fair queens, whose hands sustain a flower, 
The expressive emblem of their softer power ; 
Four knaves, in garbs succinct, a trusty band, 
Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand ; 
And parti-colored troops, a shining train, 
Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain. 

The skilful nymph reviews her force with care ; 
" Let spades be trumps ! " she said, and trumps they 
were. 

Now move to war her sable matadores, 
In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors, 
Spadillio first, unconquerable lord ! 
Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board. 
As many more Manillio forced to yield. 
And marched a victor from the verdant field. 
Him Basto followed, but his fate more hard 
Gained but one trump and one plebeian card. 
With his broad sabre next, a chief in years. 
The hoary majesty of spades appears. 
Puts forth one manly leg, to sight revealed, 
The rest his many-colored robe concealed. 
The rebel knave, who dares his prince engage, 
Proves the just victim of his royal rage. 
E'en mighty Pam, that kings and queens o'erthrew, 
And mowed down armies in the fights of loo, 
Sad chance of war ! now destitute of aid. 
Falls undistinguished by the victor spade ! 

Thus far both armies to Belinda yield ; 
Now to the baron fate inclines the field. 
His warlike amazon her host invades. 
The imperial consort of the crown of spades. 
The club's black tyrant first her victim died. 
Spite of his haughty mien and barbarous pride : 
What boots the regal circle on his head. 
His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread — 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. 



437 



That long behind he trails his pompous robe, 
And, of all monarchs, only grasps the globe? 

The baron now his diamonds pours apace ; 
The embroidered king who shows but half his face. 
And his refulgent queen, with powers combined. 
Of broken troops an easy conquest find. 
Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder seen, 
With throngs promiscuous strew the level green. 
Thus when dispersed a routed army runs, 
Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons — 
With like confusion different nations fly, 
Of various habit, and of various dye ; 
The pierced battalions disunited fall 
In heaps on heaps — one fate o'erwhelms them all. 
The knave of diamonds tries his wily arts, 
And wins (oh, shameful chance!) the queen of 

hearts. 
At this the blood the virgin's cheek forsook, 
A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look ; 
She sees, and trembles at the approaching ill, 
Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille. 
And now (as oft in some distempered state) 
On one nice trick depends the general fate : 
An ace of hearts steps forth ; the king unseen 
Lurked in her hand, and mourned his captive queen ; 
He springs to vengeance with an eager pace. 
And falls like thunder on the prostrate ace. 
The nymph, exulting, fills with shouts the sky ; 
The walls, the woods, and long canals reply. 

Oh, thoughtless mortals ! ever blind to fate. 
Too soon dejected, and too soon elate ! 
Sudden these honors shall be snatched away. 
And cursed for ever this victorious day. 

For lo ! the board with cups and spoons is 
crowned ; 
The berries crackle, and the mill turns round ; 
On shining altars of japan they raise 
The silver lamp ; the fiery spirits blaze ; 
From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide. 
While China's earth receives the smoking tide. 
At once they gratify their scent and taste. 
And frequent cups prolong the rich repast. 
Straight hover round the fair her airy band : 
Some, as she sipped, the fuming liquor fanned ; 
Some o'er her lap their careful plumes displayed, 
Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. 
Coffee (which makes the politician wise, 
And see through all things with his half-shut 
eyes) 



Sent up in vapors to the baron's brain 
New stratagems, the radiant lock to gain. 
Ah cease, rash youth ! desist ere 'tis too late ; 
Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate ! 
Changed to a bird, and sent to flit in air, 
She dearly pays for Msus' injured hair ! 

But when to mischief mortals bend their will, 
How soon they flnd fit instruments of ill I 
Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace 
A two-edged weapon from her shining case : 
So ladies, in romance, assist their knight — 
Present the spear and arm him for the fight. 
He takes the gift with reverence, and extends 
The little engine on his fingers' ends ; 
This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, 
As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head. 
Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair, 
A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair ; 
And thrice they twitched the diamond in her ear ; 
Thrice she looked back, and thrice the foe drew 

near. 
Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought 
The close recesses of the virgin's thought : 
As on the nosegay in her breast reclined. 
He watched the ideas rising in her mind, 
Sudden he viewed, in spite of all her art, 
An earthly lover lurking at her heart. 
Amazed, confused, he found his power expired, 
Resigned to fate, and with a sigh retired. 

The peer now spreads the glittering forfex wide, 
T' enclose the lock ; now joins it, to divide. 
E'en then, before the fatal engine closed, 
A wretched sylph too fondly interposed ; 
Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in twain, 
(But airy substance soon unites again :) 
The meeting points the sacred hair dissever 
From the fair head, for ever, and for ever ! 

Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes, 
And screams of horror rend the affrighted skies. 
Not louder shrieks to pitying Heaven are east 
When husbands, or when lapdogs, breathe their 

last; 
Or when rich china vessels, fallen from high. 
In glittering dust and painted fragments lie ! 

"Let wreaths of triumph now my temples 
twine," 
The victor cried, " the glorious prize is mine ! 
While fish in streams, or birds delight in air ; 
Or in a coach and six the British fair ; 



438 



POEMS OF C03IEDY. 



As long as Atalantis shall be read, 

Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed ; 

"While visits shall be paid on solemn days, 

When numerous wax-lights in bright order blaze ; 

While nymphs take treats, or assignations give. 

So long my honor, name, and praise shall live ! 

What time would spare, from steel receives its 

date; 
And monuments, like men, submit to fate ! 
Steel could the labor of the gods destroy. 
And strike to dust the imperial towers of Troy ; 
Steel could the works of mortal pride confound. 
And hew triumphal arches to the ground. 
What wonder then, fair nymph ! thy hairs should 

feel 
The conquering force of unresisted steel % " 



But anxious cares the pensive nymph opprest, 
And secret passions labored in her breast. 
Not youthful kings in battle seized alive ; 
Not scornful virgins who their charms survive ; 
Not ardent lovers robbed of all their bliss ; 
Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss ; 
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die ; 
Not Cynthia when her mantua's pinned awry, 
E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair. 
As thou, sad virgin ! for thy ravished hair. 

For, that sad moment, when the sylphs withdrew, 
And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew, 
Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite, 
As ever sullied the fair face of light, 
Down to the central earth, his proper scene. 
Repaired to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. 

Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome, 
And in a vapor reached the dismal dome. 
No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows ; 
The dreaded east is all the wind that blows. 
Here in a grotto sheltered close from air. 
And screened in shades from day's detested glare. 
She sighs for ever on her pensive bed, 
Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head. 

Two handmaids wait the throne ; alike in place. 
But differing far in figure and in faoe. 
Here stood Ill-nature, like an ancient maid. 
Her wrinkled form in black and white arrayed ; 
With store of prayers for mornings, nights, and 

noons. 
Her hand is filled ; her bosom with lampoons. 



There Affectation, with a sickly mien. 
Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen ; 
Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside, 
Faints into airs, and languishes with pride ; 
On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, 
Wrapt in a gown, for sickness, and for show — 
The fair ones feel such maladies as these. 
When each new night-dress gives a new dis- 
ease. 

A constant vapor o'er the palace flies ; 
Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise — 
Dreadful, as hermits' dreams in haunted shades, 
Or bright, as visions of expiring maids. 
Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires, 
Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires ; 
Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes. 
And crystal domes, and angels in machines. 

Unnumbered throngs on every side are seen, 
Of bodies changed to various forms by Spleen. 
Here living teapots stand, one arm held out, 
One bent — the handle this, and that the spout ; 
A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod walks ; 
Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pie talks ; 
Men prove with child, as powerful fancy works ; 
And maids, turned bottles, call aloud for corks. 

Safe passed the gnome through this fantastic 
band, 
A branch of healing spleenwort in his hand. 
Then thus addressed the power — "Hail, wayward 

queen ! 
Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen ; 
Parent of vapors and of female wit. 
Who give the hysteric or poetic fit, 
On various tempers act by various ways. 
Make some take physic, others scribble plays ; 
Who cause the proud their visits to delay. 
And send the godly in a pet to pray. 
A nymph there is that all your power disdains. 
And thousands more in equal mirth maintains. 
But oh ! if e'er thy gnome could spoil a grace. 
Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face, 
Like citron-waters matrons' cheeks inflame. 
Or change complexions at a losing game — 
If e'er with airy horns I planted heads, 
Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds. 
Or caused suspicion when no soul was rude, 
Or discomposed the headdress of a prude. 
Or e'er to costive lapdog gave disease. 
Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease — 



THE RAPE OF TEE LOCK. 



439 



Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin ; 
That single act gives half the world the spleen." 

The goddess, with a discontented air. 
Seems to reject him, though she grants his prayer. 
A wondrous bag with both her hands she binds, 
Like that when once Ulysses held the winds ; 
There she collects the force of female lungs, 
Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues. 
A vial nest she fills with fainting fears, 
Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears. 
The gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away. 
Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day. 

Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he found. 
Her eye dejected, and her hair unbound. 
Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he rent. 
And all the furies issued at the vent. 
Belinda burns with more than mortal ire. 
And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. 
" wretched maid ! " she spread her hands and cried, 
(While Hampton's echoes, " Wretched maid," re- 
plied,) 
" Was it for this you took such constant care 
The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare ? 
For this your locks in paper durance bound ? 
For this with torturing irons wreathed around ? 
For this with fillets strained your tender head f 
And bravely bore the double loads of lead? 
Gods ! shall the ravisher display your hair. 
While the fops envy, and the ladies stare ? 
Honor forbid ! at whose unrivalled shrine 
Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign. 
Methinks already I your tears survey. 
Already hear the horrid things they say ; 
Already see you a degraded toast, 
And all your honor in a whisper lost ! 
How shall I, then, your hapless fame defend ? 
'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend ! 
And shall this prize, the inestimable prize, 
Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes, 
And heightened by the diamond's circling rays, 
On that rapacious hand for ever blaze ? 
Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park circus grow. 
And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow ; 
Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall, 
Men, monkeys, lapdogs, parrots, perish all ! " 

She said ; then, raging, to Sir Plume repairs, 
And bids her beau demand the precious hairs. 
Sir Plume, of amber snufli-box justly vain, 
And the nice conduct of a clouded cane. 



With earnest eyes, and round, unthinking face. 
He first the snuff-box opened, then the case, 
And thus broke out — "My lord, why, what the 

devil ! 
Z — ds ! damn the lock ! 'fore Gad, you must be civil ! 
Plague on 't ! 'tis past a jest — nay, prithee, pox ! 
Give her the hair." — He spoke, and rapped his box. 

" It grieves me much (replied the peer again) 
Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain ; 
But by this lock, this sacred lock, I swear, 
(Which never more shall join its parted hair ; 
Which never more its honors shall renew. 
Clipped from the lovely head where late it grew,) 
That, while my nostrils draw the vital air, 
This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear." 
He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread 
The long-contended honors of her head. 

But Umbriel, hateful gnome, forbears not so ; 
He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow. 
Then see ! the nymph in beauteous grief appears. 
Her eyes half-languishing, half drowned in tears ; 
On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head. 
Which with a sigh she raised, and thus she said : 

" For ever cursed be this detested day. 
Which snatched my best, my favorite curl away ; 
Happy, ah ten times happy had I been. 
If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen ; 
Yet am not I the first mistaken maid, 
By love of courts to numerous ills betrayed. 
Oh had I rather unadmired remained 
In some lone isle, or distant northern land ; 
Where the gilt chariot never marks the way. 
Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste bohea ! 
There kept my charms concealed from mortal eye. 
Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die. 
What moved my mind with youthful lords to roam ? 
Oh had I stayed, and said my prayers at home ! 
'Twas this the morning omens seemed to tell. 
Thrice from my trembling hand the patchbox fell ; 
The tottering china shook without a wind, 
Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most imkind ! 
A sylph, too, warned me of the threats of fate, 
In mystic visions, now believed too late ! 
See the poor remnant of these slighted hairs ! 
My hands shall rend what e'en thy rapine spares : 
These in two sable ringlets taught to break. 
Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck ; 
The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone. 
And in its fellow's fate foresees its own ; 



440 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Uncurled it hangs, the fatal shears demands, 
And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands. 
Oh hadst thou, cruel ! been content to seize 
Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these ! " 



She said : the pitying audience melt in tears ; 

But Fate and Jove had stopped the baron's ears. 

In vain Thalestris with reproach assails, 

For who can move when fair Belinda fails? 

Not half so fixed the Trojan could remain, 

While Anna begged and Dido raged in vain. 

Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan ; 

Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began : 

" Say, why are beauties praised and honored most, 

The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast f 

Why decked with all that land and sea afford ? 

Why angels called, and angel-like adored ? 

Why round our coaches crowd the white-gloved 
beaux ? 

Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows ? 

How vain are all these glories, all our pains. 

Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains ; 

That men may say, when we the front-box grace, 

Behold the first in virtue as in face ! 

Oh ! if to dance all night, and dress all day, 

Charmed the small-pox, or chased old age away. 

Who would not scorn what housewife's cares pro- 
duce. 

Or who would learn one earthly thing of use ? 

To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint ; 

Nor could it, sure, be such a sin to paint. 

But since, alas ! frail beauty must decay ; 

Curled or uncurled, since locks will turn to gray ; 

Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade, 

And she who scorns a man must die a maid. 

What then remains, but well our power to use. 

And keep good humor still, whate'er we lose ? 

And trust me, dear, good humor can prevail. 

When airs, and fiights, and screams, a;nd scolding 
fail. 

Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll — 

Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul." 
So spoke the dame, but no applausie ensued ; 

Belinda frowned, Thalestris called her prude. 

" To arms, to arms ! " the fierce virago cries. 

And swift as lightning to the combat flies. 

All side in parties, and begin the attack ; 

Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack ; 



Heroes' and heroines' shouts confusedly rise, 
And bass and treble voices strike the skies. 
No common weapons in their hands are found — 
Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. 

So when bold Homer makes the gods engage. 
And heavenly breasts with human passions rage ; 
'Gainst Pallas Mars ; Latona Hermes arms ; 
And all Olympus rings with loud alarms ; 
Jove's thunder roars, heaven trembles all around. 
Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound ; 
Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground gives 

way. 
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day ! 

Triumphant Umbriel, on a sconce's height, 
Clapped his glad wings, and sat to view the fight ; 
Propped on their bodkin-spears, the sprites survey 
The growing combat, or assist the fray. 

While through the press enraged Thalestris flies. 
And scatters death around from both her eyes, 
A beau and witling perished in the throng — 
One died in metaphor, and one in song : 
" cruel nymph ! a living death I bear," 
Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. 
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upward cast, 
" Those eyes are made so killing " — was his last. 
Thus on Mffiander's flowery margin lies 
The expiring swan, and as he sings he dies. 

When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, 
Chloe stepped in, and killed him with a frown ; 
She smiled to see the doughty hero slain. 
But at her smile the beau revived again. 

Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air. 
Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair ; 
The doubtful beam long nods from side to side ; 
At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside, 

See, fierce Belinda on the baron flies. 
With more than usual lightning in her eyes ; 
Nor feared the chief th' unequal fight to try. 
Who sought no more than on his foe to die. 
But this bold lord, with manly strength endued, 
She with one finger and a thumb subdued : 
Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, 
A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw ; 
The gnomes direct, to every atom just. 
The pungent grains of titillating dust. 
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows. 
And the high dome reechoes to his nose. 

" Now meet thy fate ! " incensed Belinda cried. 
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



441 



(The same, his ancient personage to deck, 
Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck, 
In three seal-rings ; which after, melted down, 
Formed a vast buckle for his widow's gown ; 
Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew — 
The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew: 
Then in a bodkin graced her mother's hairs, 
Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) 

" Boast not my fall (he cried), insulting foe ! 
Thou by some other shalt be laid as low ; 
Nor think to die dejects my lofty mind ; 
All that I dread is leaving you behind ! 
Rather than so, ah let me still survive. 
And burn in Cupid's flames — but burn alive." 

" Restore the lock ! " she cries ; and all around 
" Restore the lock ! " the vaulted roofs rebound. 
Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain 
Roared for the handkerchief that caused his pain. 
But see how oft ambitious aims are crossed, 
And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost ! 
The lock, obtained with guilt, and kept with pain. 
In eveiy place is sought, but sought in vain ; 
With such a prize no mortal must be blest. 
So heaven decrees ! with heaven who can contest f 

Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, 
Since all things lost on earth are treasured there ; 
There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous vases. 
And beaux' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases ; 
There broken vows and deathbed alms are found. 
And lovers' hearts with ends of ribbon bound. 
The courtier's promises, and sick men's prayers. 
The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, 
Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea. 
Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. 

But trust the Muse — she saw it upward rise. 
Though marked by none but quick poetic eyes : 
(So Rome's great founder to the heavens with- 
drew, 
To Proculus alone confessed in view ;) 
A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, 
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. 
Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright. 
The heavens bespangling with dishevelled light. 
The sylphs behold it kindling as it flies. 
And, pleased, pursue its progress through the 
skies. 

This the beau monde shall from the Mall sur- 
"^ey, 
And hail with music its propitious ray ; 



This the blest lover shall for Venus take. 
And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake ; 
This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies 
When next he looks through Galileo's eyes ; 
And hence the egregious wizard shall foredoom 
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. 
Then cease, bright nymph ! to mourn thy rav- 
ished hair, 
Which adds new glory to the shining sphere ! 
Not all the tresses that fair head can boast, 
Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost. 
For after all the murders of your eye, 
When, after millions slain, yourself shall die ; 
When those fair suns shall set, as set they must, 
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust — 
This lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame, 
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. 

Alexander Pope. 



(IC1)C iriiigl)t of tlje JlJucl)C06. 



You 're my friend : 

I was the man the Duke spoke to ; 

I helped the Duchess to cast off his yoke, too ; 

So, here 's the tale from beginning to end, 

My friend ! 

II. 

Ours is a great wild country : 

If you climb to our castle's top, 

I don't see where your eye can stop ; 

For when you've passed the cornfield country. 

Where vineyards leave off, flocks are packed, 

And sheep-range leads to cattle-tract, 

And cattle-tract to open-chase. 

And open-chase to the very base 

Of the mountain, where, at a funeral pace, 

Round about, solemn and slow. 

One by one, row after row. 

Up and up the pine-trees go. 

So, like black priests up, and so 

Down the other side again 

To another greater, wilder country, 

That 's one vast red drear burnt-up plain. 

Branched thro' and thro' with many a vein 

Whence iron 's dug, and copper 's dealt ; 

Look right, look left, look straight before, — 



442 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Beneath they mine, above they smelt, 
Copper-ore and iron-ore, 
And forge and lurnace mould and melt, 
And so on, more and ever more. 
Till, at the last, for a bounding belt, 
Comes the salt sand hoar of the great sea- 
shore, 
— And the whole is our Duke's country ! 



I was born the day this present Duke was — 
(And 0, says the song, ere I was old !) 
In the castle where the other Duke was — 
(When I was hopeful and young, not old ! ) 
1 in the Kennel, he in the Bower : 
We are of like age to an hour. 
My father was Huntsman in that day ; 
Who has not heard my father say 
That, when a boar was brought to bay, 
Three times, four times out of five, 
With his hunt-spear he'd contrive 
To get the killing-place transfixed, 
And pin him true, both eyes betwixt ? 
And that 's why the old Duke had rather 
Have lost a salt-pit than my father. 
And loved to have him ever in call ; 
That 's why my father stood in the hall 
When the old Duke brought his infant out 
To show the people, and while they passed 
The wondrous bantling round about, 
Was first to start at the outside blast 
As the Kaiser's courier blew his horn, 
Just a month after the babe was born. 
" And," quoth the Kaiser's courier, " since 
The Duke has got an Heir, our Prince 
Needs the Duke's self at his side : " 
The Duke looked down and seemed to wince, 
But he thought of wars o'er the world wide. 
Castles a-fire, men on their march. 
The toppling tower, the crashing arch : 
And up he looked, and awhile he eyed 
The row of crests and shields and banners, 
Of all achievements after all manners. 
And " ay," said the Duke with a surly pride. 
The more was his comfort when he died 
At next year's end, in a velvet suit. 
With a gilt glove on his hand, and his foot 
In a silken shoe for a leather boot, 
Petticoated like a herald. 



In a chamber next to an ante-room, 

Where he breathed the breath of page and groom. 

What he called stink, and they, perfume : 

— They should have set him on red Berold, 
Mad with pride, like fire to manage 1 

They should have got his cheek fresh tannage 
Such a day as to-day in the merry sunshine ! 
Had they stuck on his fist a rough-foot merlin ! 
( — Hark, the wind 's on the heath at its game ! 
Oh for a noble falcon-lanner 
To flap each broad wing like a banner, 
And turn in the wind, and dance like flame ! ) 
Had they broached- a cask of white beer from Ber- 
lin! 

— Or if you incline to prescribe mere wine — 
Put to his lips, when they saw him pine, 

A cup of our own Moldavia fine, 
Cotnar, for instance, green as May sorrel. 
And ropy with sweet, — we shall not quarrel. 

IV. 

So, at home, the sick tall yellow Duchess 

Was left with the infant in her clutches. 

She being the daughter of God knows who : 

And now was the time to revisit her tribe. 

So, abroad and afar they went, the two. 

And let our people rail and gibe 

At the empty Hall and extinguished fire. 

As loud as we liked, but ever in vain, 

Till after long years we had our desire, 

And back came the Duke and his mother again. 



And he came back the pertest little ape 
That ever affronted human shape ; 
Full of his travel, struck at himself — 
You'd say he despised our bluff old ways 
— Not he ! For in Paris they told the elf 
That our rough North land was the Land of Lays, 
The one good thing left in evil days ; 
Since the Mid-Age was the Heroic Time, 
And only in wild nooks like ours 
Could you taste of it yet as in its prime, 
And see true castles, with proper towers, 
Young-hearted women, old-minded men, 
And manners now as manners were then. 
So, all that the old Dukes had been, without know- 
ing it. 
This Duke would fain know he was, without being it ; 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



443 



'Twas not for the joy's self, but the joy of his 

showing it. 
Nor for the pride's self, but the pride of our see- 
ing it, 
He revived all usages thoroughly worn-out, 
The souls of them fumed-forth, the hearts of them 

torn-out : 
And chief in the chase his neck he perilled, 
On a lathy horse, all legs and length. 
With blood for bone, aU speed, no strength ; 
— They should have set him on red Berold, 
With the red eye slow consuming in fire. 
And the thin stiff ear like an abbey spire ! 



Well, such as he was, he must marry, we heard : 

And out of a convent, at the word, 

Came the Lady, in time of spring. 

— Oh, old thoughts, they cling, they cling ! 

That day, I know, with a dozen oaths 

I clad myself in thick hunting-clothes 

Fit for the chase of urox or buffle 

In winter-time when you need to mufle ; 

But the Duke had a mind we should cut a figure. 

And so we saw the Lady arrive : 

My friend, I have seen a white crane bigger ! 

She was the smallest lady alive. 

Made, in a piece of Nature's madness. 

Too small, almost, for the life and gladness 

That over-filled her, as some hive 

Out of the bears' reach on the high trees 

Is crowded with its safe merry bees : 

In truth, she was not hard to please ! 

Up she looked, down she looked, round at the mead, 

Straiglit at the castle, that 's best indeed 

To look at from outside the walls : 

As for us, styled the " serfs and thralls," 

She as much thanked me as if she had said it, 

(With her eyes, do you understand ?) 

Because I patted her horse while I led it ; 

And Max, who rode on her other hand. 

Said, no bird flew past but she inquired 

What its true name was, nor ever seemed tired — 

If that was an eagle she saw hover, — 

If the green and gray bird on the field was the plover. 

When suddenly appeared the Duke, 

And as down she sprung,- the small foot pointed 

On to my hand, — as with a rebuke. 

And as if his backbone were not jointed. 



The Duke stepped rather aside than forward. 
And welcomed her with his grandest smile ; 
And, mind you, his mother aU the while 
Chilled in the rear, like a wind to Nor'ward ; 
And up, like a weary yawn, with its pulleys 
Went, in a shriek, the rusty portcullis ; 
And, like a glad sky the north-wind sullies, 
The Lady's face stopped its play. 
As if her first hair had grown gray — 
For such things must begin some one day ! 



In a day or two she was well again ; 

As who should say, " You labor in vain ! 

This is all a jest against God, who meant 

I should ever be, as I am, content 

And glad in his sight ; therefore, glad I wUl 

be!" 
So smiling as at first went she. 



She was active, stirring, all fire — 

Could not rest, could not tire — 

To a stone she had given life ! 

(I myself loved once, in my day). 

For a Shepherd's, Miner's, Huntsman's wife, 

(I had a wife, I know what I say), 

Never in all the world such an one ! 

And here was plenty to be done, 

And she that could do it, great or small. 

She was to do nothing at all. 

There was already this man in his post. 

This in his station, and that in his office. 

And the Duke's plan admitted a wife, at most, 

To meet his eye, with the other trophies, 

Now outside the Hall, now in it. 

To sit thus, stand thus, see and be seen. 

At the proper place in the proper minute, 

And die away the life between. 

And it was amusing enough, each infraction 

Of rule (but for after-sadness that came) — 

To hear the consummate self-satisfaction 

With which the young Duke and the old Dame 

Would let her advise and criticise. 

And, being a fool, instruct the wise. 

And, childlike, parcel out praise or blame : 

They bore it all in complacent guise. 

As tho' an artificer, after contriving 

A wheel-work image as if it were living. 



444 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Should find with delight it could motion to strike 

him ! 
So found the Duke, and his mother like him, — 
The Lady hardly got a rebufE — 
That had not been contemptuous enough, 
With his cursed smirk, as he nodded applause. 
And kept oil the old mother-cat's claws. 

IX. 

So, the little Lady grew silent and thin. 

Paling and ever paling, 
As the way is with a hid chagrin ; 

And the Duke perceived that she was ailing, 
And said in his heart, " 'Tis done to spite me, 
But I shall find in my power to right me ! " 
Don't swear, friend — the Old One, many a year. 
Is in Hell, and the Duke's self . . . you shall hear. 

X. 

Well, early in autumn, at first winter-warning. 
When the stag had to break with his foot, of a 

morning 
A drinking-hole out of the fresh tender ice 
That covered the pond till the sun, in a trice. 
Loosening it, let out a ripple of gold, 
And another and another, and faster and faster, 
Till, dimpling to blindness, the wide water rolled : 
Then it so chanced that the Duke our master 
Asked himself what were the pleasures in season. 
And found, since the calendar bade him be hearty. 
He should do the Middle Age no treason 
In resolving on a hunting-party. 
Always provided, old books showed the way of 

it! 
What meant old poets by their strictures ? 
And when old poets had said their say of it, 
How taught old painters in their pictures ? 
We must revert to the proper channels, 
Workings in tapestry, paintings on panels. 
And gather up woodcraft's authentic traditions : 
Here was food for our various ambitions. 
As on each ease, exactly stated, 
— To encourage your dog, now, the properest chir- 
rup. 
Or best prayer to St. Hubert on mounting your 

stirrup — 
We of the household took thought and debated. 
Blessed was he whose back ached with the jerkin 
His sire was wont to do forest-work in ; 



Blesseder he who nobly sunk " ohs " 

And "ahs" while he tugged on his grandsire's 

trunkhose ; 
What signified hats if they had no rims on, 
Each slouching before and behind like the scallop. 
And able to serve at sea for a shallop. 
Loaded with laquer and looped with crimson ? 
So that the deer now, to make a short rhyme on't. 
What with our Venerers, Prickers, and Verderers, 
Might hope for real hunters at length, and not 

murderers. 
And oh, the Duke's taUor — he had a hot time on't ! 

XI. 

Now you must know, that when the first dizziness 
Of flap-hats and buff-coats and jackboots subsided, 
The Duke put this question, " The Duke's part 

provided, 
Had not the Duchess some share in the business ? " 
For out of the mouth of two or three witnesses, 
Did he establish all fit-or-unfitnesses : 
And, after much laying of heads together. 
Somebody's cap got a notable feather 
By the announcement with proper unction 
That he had discovered the Lady's function ; 
Since ancient authors held this tenet, 
" When horns wind a mort and the deer is at siege. 
Let the dame of the Castle prick forth on her jennet. 
And with water to wash the hands of her liege 
In a clean ewer with a fair towelling. 
Let her preside at the disembowelling." 
Now, my friend, if you had so little religion 
As to catch a hawk, some falcon-lanner. 
And thrust her broad wings like a banner 
Into a coop for a vulgar pigeon ; 
And if day by day, and week by week. 
You cut her claws, and sealed her eyes. 
And clipped her wings, and tied her beak, 
Would it cause you any great surprise 
If when you decided to give her an airing 
You found she needed a little preparing % 
— I say, should you be such a curmudgeon. 
If she clung to the perch, as to take it in dudgeon ? 
Yet when the Duke to his Lady signified. 
Just a day before, as he judged most dignified. 
In what a pleasure she was to participate, — 
And, instead of leaping wide in flashes. 
Her eyes just lifted their long lashes. 
As if pressed by fatigue even he could not dissipate, 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



445 



And duly acknowledged the Duke's forethought, 
But spoke of her health, if her health were worth 

aught, 
Of the weight by day and the watch by night, 
And much wrong now that used to be right. 
So, thanking him, declined the hunting, — 
Was conduct ever more affronting ? 
With all the ceremony settled — 
"With the towel ready, and the sewer 
Polishing up his oldest ewer, 
And the jennet pitched upon, a piebald, 
Black-barred, cream-coated and pink eye-balled, — 
No wonder if the Duke was nettled I 
And when she persisted nevertheless, — 
"Well, I suppose here 's the time to confess 
That there ran half round our Lady's chamber 
A balcony none of the hardest to clamber ; 
And that Jacynth the tire-woman, ready in wait- 
ing. 
Stayed in call outside, what need of relating ? 
And since Jacynth was like a June rose, why, a 

fervent 
Adorer of Jacynth, of course, was your servant ; 
And if she had the habit to peep through the case- 
ment. 
How could I keep at any vast distance ? 
And so, as I say, on the Lady's persistence. 
The Duke, dumb stricken with amazement, 
Stood for a while in a sultry smother. 
And then, with a smile that partook of the awful, 
Turned her over to his yellow mother 
To learn what was decorous and lawful ; 
And the mother smelt blood with a cat-like in- 
stinct. 
As her cheek quick whitened thro' all its quince- 

tinct — 
Oh, but the Lady heard the whole truth at once ! 
"What meant she ? — Who was she f — Her duty and 

station, 
The wisdom of age and the folly of youth, at 

once, 
Its decent regard and its fitting relation — 
In brief, my friend, set aU the devils in hell free 
And turn them out to carouse in a belfry. 
And treat the priests to a fifty-part canon, 
And then you may guess how that tongue of hers 

ran on ! 
Well, somehow or other it ended at last 
And, licking her whiskers, out she passed ; 



And after her, — making (he hoped) a face 
Like Emperor Nero or Sultan Saladin, 
Stalked the Duke's self with the austere grace 
Of ancient hero or modern paladin, — 
From doors to staircase — oh, such a solemn 
Unbending of the vertebral column ! 

XII. 

However, at sunrise our company mustered. 

And here was the huntsman bidding unkennel, 

And there 'neath his bonnet the pricker blustered. 

With feather dank as a bough of wet fennel ; 

For the court-yard's four walls were filled with fog 

You might cut as an axe chops a log. 

Like so much wool for color and bulkiness ; 

And out rode the Duke in a perfect sulkiness, 

Since before breakfast, a man feels but queasily, 

And a sinking at the lower abdomen 

Begins the day with indifferent omen : 

And lo, as he looked around uneasily. 

The sun ploughed the fog up and drove it asunder 

This way and that from the valley under ; 

And, looking thro' the court-yard arch, 

Down in the valley, what should meet him 

But a troop of Gypsies on their march. 

No doubt with the annual gifts to greet him ? 



Now, in your land, Gypsies reach you, only 

After reaching all lands beside ; 

North they go, south they go, trooping or lonely, 

And still, as they travel far and wide. 

Catch they and keep now a trace here, a trace there. 

That puts you in mind of a place here, a place 

there : 
Bat with us, I believe they rise out of the ground. 
And nowhere else, I take it, are found 
With the earth-tint yet so freshly embrowned ; 
Born, no doubt, like insects which breed on 
The very fruit they are meant to feed on : 
For the earth — not a use to which they don't turn 

it. 
The ore that grows in the mountain's womb, 
Or the sand in the pits like a honeycomb. 
They sift and soften it, bake it and bum it — 
Whether they weld you, for instance, a snaflie 
"With side-bars never a brute can baffle-; 
Or a lock that's a puzzle of wards within wards ; 
Or, if your colt's fore-foot inclines to curve inwards. 



446 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Horseshoes they'll hammer which turn, on a swivel 
And won't allow the hoof to shrivel ; 
Then they cast bells like the shell of the winkle, 
Tliat keep a stout heart in the ram with their 

tinkle ; 
But the sand — they pinch and pound it like otters ; 
Commend me to Gypsy glass-makers and potters ! 
Glasses they'll blow you, crystal-clear, 
Where just a faint cloud of rose shall appear. 
As if in pure water you dropped and let die 
A bruised black-blooded mulberry ; 
And that other sort, their crowning pride, 
With long white threads distinct inside, 
Like the lake-flower's fibrous roots which dangle 
Loose such a length and never tangle. 
Where the bold sword-lily cuts the clear waters, 
And the cup-lily couches with all the white daugh- 
ters — 
Such are the works they put their hand to. 
And the uses they turn and twist iron and sand to. 
And these made the troop which our Duke saw 

sally 
Toward his castle from out of the valley, 
Men and women, like new-hatched spiders. 
Come out with the morning to greet our riders ; 
And up they wound till they reached the ditch, 
Whereat all stopped save one, a witch, 
That I knew, as she hobbled from the group. 
By her gait, directly, and her stoop, 
I, whom Jacynth was used to importune 
To let that same witch tell us our fortune. 
The oldest Gypsy then above ground ; 
And, so sure as the autumn season came round, 
She paid us a visit for profit or pastime. 
And every time, as she swore, for the last time. 
And presently she was seen to sidle 
Up to the Duke till she touched his bridle. 
So that the horse of a sudden reared up 
As under its nose the old witch peered up 
With her worn-out eyes or rather eye-holes 
Of no iise now but to gather brine. 
And began a kind of level whine 
Such as they used to sing to their viols 
When their ditties they go grinding ♦ 
Up and down with nobody minding : 
And, then as of old, at the end of the humming. 
Her usual presents were forthcoming 
— A dog-whistle blowing the fiercest of trebles, 
(Just a sea-shore stone holding a dozen fine pebbles,) 



Or a porcelain mouth-piece to screw on a pipe-end, — 
And so she awaited her annual stipend. 
But this time the Duke would scarcely vouchsafe 
A word in reply ; and in vain she felt 
With twitching fingers at her belt 
B'or the purse of sleek pine-marten pelt, 
Ready to put what he gave in her pouch safe, — 
Till, either to quicken his apprehension, 
Or possibly with an after-intention. 
She was come, she said, to pay her duty 
To the new Duchess, the youthful beauty. 
No sooner had she named his Lady, 
Than a shine lit up the face so shady. 
And its smirk returned with a novel meaning — 
For it struck him the babe just wanted weaning ; 
If one gave her a taste of what life was and sorrow. 
She, foolish to-day, would be wiser to-morrow ; 
And who so fit a teacher of trouble 
As this sordid crone bent wellnigh double ? 
So, glancing at her wolf -skin vesture, 
(If such it was, for they grow so hirsute 
That their own fleece serves for natural fur suit) 
He was contrasting, 'twas plain from his gesture. 
The life of the Lady so flower-like and delicate 
With the loathsome squalor of this helicate. 
I, in brief, was the man the Duke beckoned 
From out of the throng, and while I drew near 
He told the crone, as I since have reckoned 
By the way he bent and spoke into her ear 
With circumspection and mystery, 
The main of the Lady's histoiy. 
Her f rowardness and ingratitude ; 
And for all the crone's submissive attitude 
I could see round her mouth the loose plaits tight- 
ening. 
And her brow with assenting intelligence bright- 
ening. 
As tho' she engaged with hearty good-will 
Whatever he now might enjoin to fulfil. 
And promised the lady a thorough frightening. 
And so, just giving her a glimpse 
Of a purse, with the air of a man who imps 
The wing of the hawk that shall fetch the hern- 

shaw, 
He bade me take the Gypsy mother 
And set her telling some story or other 
Of hill or dale, oak-wood or fernshaw, 
To while away a weary hour 
For the Lady left alone in her bower. 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



447 



Whose mind and body craved exertion 
And yet shrank from all better diversion. 

XIV. 

Then clapping heel to his horse, the mere curvetter, 
Out rode the Duke, and after his hollo 
Horses and hounds swept, huntsman and servitor, 
And back I turned and bade the crone follow, 
And what makes me confident what 's to be told 

you 
Had all along been of this crone's devising. 
Is, that, on looking round sharply, behold you. 
There was a novelty quick as surprising : 
For first, she had shot up a full head in stature. 
And her step kept pace with mine nor faltered. 
As if age had foregone its usurpature. 
And the ignoble mien was wholly altered. 
And the face looked quite of another nature. 
And the change reached too, whatever the change 

meant. 
Her shaggy wolf-skin cloak's arrangement. 
For where its tatters hung loose like sedges, 
Gold coins are glittering on the edges. 
Like the band-roll strung with tomans 
Which proves the veil a Persian woman's : 
And under her brow, like a snail's horns newly 
Come out as after the rain he paces, 
Two unmistakable eye-points duly 
Live and aware looked out of their places. 
So we went and found Jacynth at the entry 
Of the Lady's chamber standing sentry ; 
I told the command and produced my companion. 
And Jacynth rejoiced to admit any one, 
For since last night, by the same token, 
Not a single word had the Lady spoken : 
So they went in both to the presence together. 
While I in the balcony watched the weather. 

XV. 

And now, what took place at the very first of all, 

I cannot tell, as I never could learn it : 

Jacynth constantly wished a curse to fall 

On that little head of hers and burn it. 

If slie knew how she came to drop so soundly 

Asleep of a sudden and there continue 

The whole time sleeping as profoundly 

As one of the boars my father would pin you 

'Twixt the eyes where the life holds garrison, 

— Jacynth forgive me the comparison ! 



But wliere I begin my own narration 

Is a little after I took my station 

To breathe the fresh air from the balcony. 

And, having in those days a falcon eye. 

To follow the hunt through the open countrj', 

From where the bushes thinlier crested 

The hillocks, to a plain where 's not one tree : — 

When, in a moment, my ear was arrested 

By — was it singing, or was it saying, 

Or a strange musical instrument playing 

In the chamber? — and to be certain 

I pushed the lattice, pulled the curtain, 

And there lay Jacynth asleep, 

Yet as if a watch she tried to keep, 

In a rosy sleep along the floor 

With her head against the door ; 

While in the midst, on the seat of state, 

Like a queen the Gypsy woman sate. 

With head and face downbent 

On the Lady's head and face intent, 

For, coiled at her feet like a child at ease. 

The Lady sate between her knees, 

And o'er them the Lady's clasped hands met. 

And on those hands her chin was set. 

And her upturned face met the face of the crone 

Wherein the eyes had grown and grown 

As if she could double and quadruple 

At pleasure the play of either pupil 

— Very like by her hands slow fanning, 
As up and down like a gor-crow's flappers 
They moved to measure like bell-clappers 

— I said, is it blessing, is it banning, 
Do they applaud you or burlesque you ? 
Those hands and fingers with no flesh on ? 
When, just as I thought to spring in to the res- 
cue, 

At once I was stopped by the Lady's expression : 

For it was life her eyes were drinking 

From the crone's wide pair above unwinking. 

Life's pure fire received without shrinking, 

Into the heart and breast whose heaving 

Told you no single drop they were leaving — 

Life, that filling her, past redundant 

Into her very hair, back swerving 

Over each shoulder, loose and abundant, 

As her head thrown back showed the white throat 

curving. 
And the very tresses shared in the pleasitre. 
Moving to the mystic measure. 



448 POEMS OF COMJEDY. 


Bounding as the bosom bounded. 


Thou shalt victoriously endure. 


I stopped short, more and more confounded, 


If that brow is true and those eyes are sure ; 


As still her cheeks burned and eyes glistened, 


Like a jewel-flnder's fierce assay 


As she listened and she listened, — 


Of the prize he dug from its mountain tomb, — 


When all at once a hand detained me, 


Let once the vindicating ray 


And the selfsame contagion gained me. 


Leap out amid the anxious gloom. 


And I kept time to the wondrous chime, 


And steel and fire have done their part. 


Making out words and prose and rhyme. 


And the prize falls on its finder's heart ; 


Till it seemed that the music furled 


So, trial after trial past, 


Its wings like a task fulfilled, and dropped 


Wilt thou fall at the very last 


From under the words it first had propped, 


Breathless, half in trance 


And left them midway in the world, 


With the thrill of the great deliverance, 


And word took word as hand takes hand, 


Into our arms for evermore ; 


I could hear at last, and understand. 


And thou shalt know, those arms once curled 


And when I held the unbroken thread, 


About thee, what we knew before. 


The Gypsy said : — 


How love is the only good in the world. 


" And so at last we find my tribe, 


Henceforth be loved as heart can love. 


And so 1 set thee in the midst. 


Or brain devise, or hand approve ! 


And to one and all of them describe 


Stand up, look below, 


What thou saidst and what thou didst. 


It is our life at thy feet we throw 


Our long and terrible journey thro'. 


To step with into light and joy ; 


And all thou art ready to say and do 


Not a power of life but we'll employ 


In the trials that remain : 


To satisfy thy nature's want ; 


I trace them the vein and the other vein 


Art thou the tree that props the plant, 


That meet on thy brow and part again. 


Or the climbing plant that seeks the tree — 


Making our rapid mystic mark ; 


Canst thou help us, must we help thee ? 


And I bid my people prove and probe 


If any two creatures grew into one, 


Bach eye's profound and glorious globe 


They would do more than the world has 


Till they detect the kindred spark 


done; 


In those depths so dear and dark. 


Tho' each apart were never so weak, 


Like the spots that snap, and burst, and flee, 


Yet vainly thro' the world should ye seek 


Circling over the midnight sea. 


For the knowledge and the might 


And on that young round cheek of thine 


Which in such union grew their right : 


I make them recognize the tinge. 


So, to approach, at least, that end, 


As when of the costly scarlet wine 


And blend,— as much as may be, blend 


They drip so much as will impinge 


Thee with us, or us with thee. 


And spread in a thinnest scale afloat 


As climbing-plant or propping-tree, 


One thick gold drop from the olive's coat 


Shall some one deck thee, over and down, 


Over a silver plate whose sheen 


Up and about, with blossoms and leaves 1 


Still thro' the mixture shall be seen. 


Fix his heart's fruit for thy garland crown, 


For, so I prove thee, to one and all. 


Cling with his soul as the gourd-vine cleaves, 


Fit, when my people ope their breast, 


Die on thy boughs and disappear 


To see the sign, and hear the call. 


While not a leaf of thine is sere ? 


And take the vow, and stand the t(?st 


Or is the other fate in store. 


Which adds one more child to the rest — 


And art thou fitted to adore, 


When the breast is bare and the arms are wide. 


To give thy wondrous self away. 


And the world is left outside. 


And take a stronger nature's sway ? 


For there is probation to decree. 


I foresee and I could foretell 


And many and long must the trials be 


Thy future portion, sure and well — 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 449 


But those passionate eyes speak true, speak true, 


To paper and put you down every syllable. 


And let them say what thou shalt do I 


With those clever clerkly fingers. 


Only, be sure thy daily life, 


All that I've forgotten as well as what lingers 


In its peace, or in its strife, 


In this old brain of mine that 's but ill able 


Never shall be unobserved ; 


To give you even this poor version 


We pursue thy whole career, 


Of the speech I spoil, as it were, with stammering 


And hope for it, or doubt, or fear, — 


— More fault of those who had the hammering 


Lo, hast thou kept thy path or swerved. 


Of prosody into me, and syntax. 


We are beside thee, in all thy ways, 


And did it, not with hobnails but tintacks ! 


With our blame, with our praise. 


But to return from this excursion — 


Our shame to feel, our pride to show, 


Just, do you mark, when the song was sweetest. 


Glad, sorry — but indifferent, no ! 


The peace most deep, and the charm completest. 


Whether it is thy lot to go. 


There came, shall I say a snap — 


For the good of us ail, where the haters meet 


And the charm vanished ! 


In the crowded city's horrible street ; 


And my sense returned, so strangely banished, 


Or thou step alone thro' the morass 


And, starting as from a nap. 


Where never sound yet was 


I knew the crone was bewitching my lady, 


Save the dry quick clap of the stork's bill, 


With Jacynth asleep ; and but one spring made 1, 


For the air is still, and the water still. 


Down from the casement, round to the portal. 


When the blue breast of the dipping coot 


Another minute and I had entered. 


Dives under, and all again is mute. 


When the door opened, and more than mortal 


So at the last shall come old age, 


Stood, with a face where to my mind centred 


Decrepit, as befits that stage ; 


All beauties I ever saw or shall see. 


How else wouldst thou retire apart 


The Duchess — I stopped as if struck by palsy. 


With the hoarded memories of thy heart, 


She was so different, happy and beautiful. 


And gather all to the very least 


I felt at once that all was best, 


Of the fragments of life's earlier feast. 


And that I had nothing to do, for the rest. 


Let fall through eagerness to find 


But wait her commands, obey and be dutiful. 


The crowning dainties yet behind 1 


Not that, in fact, there was any commanding, 


Ponder on the entire past 


— I saw the glory of her eye, 


Laid together thus at last. 


And the. brows' height and the breast's expanding. 


When the twilight helps to fuse 


And I was hers to live or to die. 


The first fresh, with the faded hues. 


As for finding what she wanted. 


And the outline of the whole, 


You know God Almighty granted 


As round eve's shades their framework I'oll, 


Such little signs should serve his wild creatures 


Grandly fronts for once thy soul : 


To tell one another all their desires. 


And then as, 'mid the dark, a gleam 


So that each knows what its friend requires. 


Of yet another morning breaks, 


And does its bidding without teachers. 


And like the hand which ends a dream, 


I preceded her ; the crone 


Death, with the might of his sunbeam 


Followed silent and alone ; 


Touches the flesh, and the soul awakes, 


I spoke to her, but she merely jabbered 


Then—" 


In the old style ; both her eyes had slunk 


Ay, then, indeed, something would hap- 


Back to their pits ; her stature shrunk ; 


pen ! 


In short, the soul in its body sunk 


But what? For here her voice changed like a 


Like a blade sent home to its scabbard. 


bird's; 


We descended, I preceding ; 


There grew more of the music and less of the 


Crossed the court with nobody heeding ; 


words ; 


All the world was at the chase. 


Had Jacynth only been by me to clap pen 
31- 


The court-yard like a desert-place. 



450 



P0E3IS OF COMEDY. 



The stable emptied of its small fry ; 
I saddled myself the very palfrey 
I remember patting while it carried her, 
The day she arrived and the Duke married her. 
And, do you know, though it 's easy deceiving 
Oneself in such matters, I can't help believing 
The Lady had not forgotten it either, 
And knew the poor devil so much beneath her 
Would have been only too glad for her service 
To dance on hot ploughshares like a Turk dervise, 
But unable to pay proper duty where owing it 
Was reduced to that pitiful method of show- 
ing it : 
For though the moment I began setting 
His saddle on my own nag of Berold's begetting, 
(Not that I meant to be obtrusive) 
She stopped me, while his rug was shifting, 
By a single rapid finger's lifting, 
And, with a gesture kind but conclusive, 
And a little shake of the head, refused me, — 
I say, although she never used me. 
Yet when she was mounted, the Gypsy behind 

her. 
And I ventured to remind her, 
I suppose with a voice of less steadiness 
Than usual, for my feeling exceeded me, 
— Something to the effect that I was in readiness 
Whenever God should please she needed me, — 
Then, do you know, her face looked down on me 
With a look that placed a crown on me. 
And she felt in her bosom, — mark, her bosom — 
And, as a flower-tree drops its blossom, 
Dropped me — ah, had it been a purse 
Of silver, my friend, or gold that 's worse, 
Why, you see, as soon as I found myself 
So understood, — that a true heart so may gain 
Such a reward, — I should have gone home again. 
Kissed Jacynth, and soberly drowned myself ! 
It was a little plait of hair 
Such as friends in a convent make 
To wear, each for the other's sake, — 
This, see, which at my breast I wear. 
Ever did (rather to Jaeynth's grudgment). 
And ever shall, till the Day of Judgment. 
And then, — and then, — to cut short, — this is 

idle. 
These are feelings it is not good to foster, — 
I pushed the gate wide, she shook the bridle. 
And the palfrey bounded, — and so we lost her ! 



When the liquor 's out, why clink the cannakin ? 
I did think to describe you the panic in 
The redoubtable breast of our master the manikin, 
And what was the pitch of his mother's yellowness. 
How she turned as a shark to snap the spare-rib 
Clean off, sailors say, from a pearl-diving Carib, 
When she heard, what she called, the flight of the 

feloness — 
But it seems such child's play 
What they said and did with the Lady away ! 
And to dance on, when we've lost the music. 
Always made me — and no doubt makes you — sick. 
Nay, to my mind, the world's face looked so stern 
As that sweet form disappeared thro' the postern, 
She that kept it in constant good-humor, 
It ought to have stopped ; there seemed nothing to 

do more. 
But the world thought otherwise and went on. 
And my head's one that its spite was spent on : 
Thirty years are fled since that morning, 
And with them all my head's adorning. 
Nor did the old Duchess die outright, 
As you expect, of suppressed spite, 
The natural end of every adder 
Not suffered to empty its poison-bladder : 
But she and her son agreed, I take it, 
That no one should touch on the story to wake it, 
For the wound in the Duke's p)ride rankled fiery. 
So they made no search and small inquiry — 
And when fresh Gypsies have paid us a visit, I've 
Noticed the couple were never inquisitive. 
But told them they're folks the Duke don't want 

here, 
And bade them make haste and cross the frontier. 
Brief, the Duchess was gone and the Duke was 

glad of it. 
And the old one was in the young one's stead. 
And took, in her place, the housh old's head. 
And a blessed time the household had of it ! 
And were I not, as a man may say, caiitious 
How I trench, more than needs, on the nauseous, 
I could favor you with sundry touches 
Of the paint-smutches with which the Duchess 
Heightened the mellowness of her cheek's yellowness 
(To get on faster) until at last her 
Cheek grew to be one master-plaster 
Of mucus and fucus from mere use of ceruse 



TEH FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



451 



Till in short she grew from scalp to udder 
Just the object to make you shudder ! 



You 're my friend — 

What a thing friendship is, world without end ! 

How it gives the heart and soul a stir-up, 

As if somebody broached you a glorious runlet, 

And poured out all lovelily, sparkling, and sunlit. 

Our green Moldavia, the streaky syrup, 

Cotnar as old as the time of the Druids — 

Friendship 's as good as that monarch of fluids 

To supply a dry brain, fill you its ins-and-outs, — 

Gives your Life's hour-glass a shake when the thin 

sand doubts 
Whether to run on or stop short, and guarantees 
Age is not all made of stark sloth and arrant ease ! 
I have seen my little Lady once more, 
Jacynth, the Gypsy, Berold, and the rest of it, 
For to me spoke the Duke, as I told you before ; 
I always wanted to make a clean breast of it. 
And now it is made — why, my heart's-blood, that 

went trickle. 
Trickle, but anon, in such muddy driblets. 
Is pumped up brisk now, thro' the main ventricle, 
And genially floats me about the giblets ! 
I'll tell you what I intend to do : 
I must see this fellow his sad life thro' 
— He is our Duke after all, 
And I, as he says, but a serf and thrall ; 
My father was born here, and I inherit 
His fame, a chain he bound his son with — 
Could I pay in a lump I should prefer it, 
But there's no mine to blow up and get done 

with. 
So I must stay till the end of the chapter : 
For, as to our middle-age-manners-adapter. 
Be it a thing to be glad on or sorry on. 
One day or other, his head in a morion. 
And breast in a hauberk, his heels he'll kick up. 
Slain by some onslaught fierce of hiccup. 
And then, when red doth the sword of our Duke 

rust, 
And its leathern sheath lies o'ergrown with a blue 

crust. 
Then, I shall scrape together my earnings ; 
For, you see, in the churchyard Jacynth reposes, 
And our children all went the way of the roses — 
It's a long lane that knows no turnings — 



One needs but little tackle to travel in, 

So, just one stout cloak shall I indue. 

And for a staff, what beats the javelin 

With which his boars my father pinned you f 

And then, for a purpose you shall hear presently. 

Taking some Cotnar, a tight plump skinfull, 

I shall go journeying, who but I, pleasantly ? 

Sorrow is vain and despondency sinful. 

What 's a man's age ? He must hurry more, that 's 

all; 
Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to 

hold; 
When we mind labor, then only, we're too old — 
What age had Methusalem when he begat Saul f 
And at last, as its haven some buffeted ship sees, 
(Come all the way from the north-parts with sperm 

oil) 
I shall get safely out of the turmoil 
And arrive one day at the land of the Gypsies 
And find my Lady, or hear the last news of her 
From some old thief and son of Lucifer, 
His forehead chapletted green with wreathy hop, 
Sunburned all over like an ^thiop : 
And when my Cotnar begins to operate 
And the tongue of the rogue to run at a proper 

rate. 
And our wine-skin, tight once, shows each flaccid 

dent, 
I shall drop in with — as if by accident — 
" You never knew, then, how it all ended, 
What fortunes good or bad attended 
The little Lady your Queen befriended ? " 

— And when that 's told me, what 's remaining ? 
This world 's too hard for my explaining — 
The same wise judge of matters equine 

Who still preferred some slim four-year-old 

To the big-boned stock of mighty Berold, 

And for strong Cotnar drank French weak wine, 

He also must be such a Lady's scorner ! 

Smooth Jacob still robs homely Esau, 

Now up, now down, the world 's one see-saw ! 

— So, I shall find out some snug corner 
Under a hedge, like Orson the wood-knight. 
Turn myself round and bid the world good-night ; 
And sleep a sound sleep till the trumpet's blowing 
Wakes me (unless priests cheat us laymen) 

To a world where 's to be no further throwing 
Pearls before swine that can't value them. Amen ! 

EOBKBT BrOWUINO. 



453 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



ai)e JDitjerting Jiistorg of Jol)n ©ilpin, 

SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTEND- 
ED, AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN, 

John Gilpin was a citizen 

Of credit and renown ; 
A trainband captain eke was he, 

Of famous London town. 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear — 

" Though wedded we have been 
These twice ten tedious years, yet we 

No holiday have seen. 

" To-morrow is our wedding-day. 

And we will then repair 
Unto the Bell at Edmonton 

All in a chaise and pair. 

" My sister, and ray sister's child, 

Myself, and children three. 
Will fill the chaise ; so you must ride 

On horseback after we." 

He soon replied, " I do admire 

Of womankind but one, 
And you are she, my dearest dear ; 

Therefore it shall be done. 

" I am a linendraper bold. 

As all the world doth know ; 
And my good friend, the calender, 

Will lend his horse to go." 

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, " That 's well said ; 

And, for that wine is dear, 
We will be furnished with our own. 

Which is both bright and clear." 

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife ; 

O'erjoyed was he to find 
That, though on pleasure she was bent, 

She had a frugal mind. ' 

The morning came, the chaise was brought. 

But yet was not allowed 
To drive up to the door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 



So three doors ofE the chaise was stayed 

Where they did all get in — 
Six precious souls, and all agog 

To dash through thick and thin. 

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels - 

Were never folks so glad ; 
The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad, 

John Gilpin at his horse's side 

Seized fast the flowing mane, 
And up he got, in haste to ride — 

But soon came down again : 

For saddletree scarce reached had he, 

His journey to begin, 
When, turning round his head, he saw 

Three customers come in. 

So down he came : for loss of time, 

Although it grieved him sore. 
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew. 

Would trouble him much more. 

'Twas long before the customers 

Were suited to their mind ; 
When Betty, screaming, came down stairs — 

" The wine is left behind ! " 

" Good lack ! " quoth he — "yet bring it me, 

My leathern belt likewise. 
In which I wear my trusty sword 

When I do exercise." 

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul ! ) 

Had two stone bottles found, 
To hold the liquor that she loved, 

And keep it safe and sound. 

Each bottle had a curling ear. 
Through which the belt he drew. 

And hung a bottle on each side, 
To make his balance true. 

Then over all, that he might be 

Equipped from top to toe, 
His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, 

He manfully did throw. 



THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 453 


Now see him mounted once again 

Upon his nimble steed, 
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, 

With caution and good heed. 


And still as fast as he drew near, 
'Twas wonderful to view 

How in a trice the turnpike men 
Their gates wide open threw. 


But finding soon a smoother road 
Beneath his well-shod feet, 

The snorting beast began to trot, 
Which galled him in his seat. 


And now, as he went bowing down 
His reeking head full low. 

The bottles twain behind his back 
Were shattered at a blow. 


So, " Fair and softly," John he cried, 
But John he cried in vain ; 

That trot became a gallop soon. 
In spite of eui'b and rein. 


Down ran the wine into the road. 

Most piteous to be seen. 
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke 

As they had basted been. 


So stooping down, as needs he must 

Who cannot sit upright, 
He grasped the mane with both his hands, 

And eke with all his might. 


But still he seemed to carry weight. 
With leathern girdle braced ; 

For aU might see the bottle necks 
Still dangling at his waist. 


His horse, who never in that sort 
Had handled been before, 

What thing upon his back had got 
Did wonder more and more. 


Thus all through merry Islington 
These gambols did he play. 

Until he came unto the Wash 
Of Edmonton so gay ; 


Away went Gilpin, neck or nought ; 

Away went hat and wig ; 
He little dreamt, when he set out. 

Of running such a rig. 


And there he threw the wash about 
On both sides of the way, 

Just like unto a trundling mop. 
Or a wild goose at play. 


The wind did blow — the cloak did fly. 
Like streamer long and gay ; 

Till, loop and button failing both. 
At last it flew away. 


At Edmonton his loving wife 

From the balcony spied 
Her tender husband, wondering much 

To see how he did ride. 


Then might all people well discern 
The bottles he had slung — 

A bottle swinging at each side, 
As hath been said or sung. 


" Stop, stop, John Gilpin ! here 's the house," 

They all at once did cry ; 
" The dinner waits, and we are tired : " 

Said Gilpin — " So am I ! " 


The dogs did bark, the childi'en screamed. 

Up flew the windows all ; 
And every soul cried out, " Well done ! " 

As loud as he could bawl. 


But yet his horse was not a whit 

Inclined to tarry there ; 
For why? — his owner had a house 

FuU ten miles off, at Ware. 


Away went Gilpin — who but he? 

His fame soon spread around — 
" He carries weight ! he rides a race ! 

'Tis for a thousand pound ! " 


So like an arrow swift he flew, 
Shot by an archer strong ; 

So did he fly — which brings me to 
The middle of my song. 



- ..... 

454 POJEMS OF COMEDY. 


A-way went Gilpin out of breath, 
And sore against his will, 

Till at his friend the calender's 
His horse at last stood still. 


So, turning to his horse, he said, 

" I am in haste to dine ; 
'Twas for your pleasure you came here — 

You shall go back for mine." 


The calender, amazed to see 
His neighbor in such trim, 

Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate. 
And thus accosted him : 


Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast, 
For which he paid full dear ! 

For, while he spake, a braying ass 
Did sing most loud and clear ; 


" "What news ? what news f your tidings tell ; 

Tell me you must and shall — 
Say why bareheaded you are come, 

Or why you come at all ? " 


Whereat his horse did snort, as he 

Had heard a lion roar. 
And galloped off with all his might, 

As he had done before. 


Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit. 
And loved a timely joke ; 

And thus unto the calender 
In merry guise he spoke : 


Away went Gilpin, and away 
Went Gilpin's hat and wig : 

He lost them sooner than at first, 
For why 1 — they were too big. 


" I came because your horse would come ; 

And, if I well forebode. 
My hat and wig will soon be here, 

They are upon the road." 


Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 
Her husband posting down 

Into the country far away. 
She pulled out half a crown ; 


The calender, right glad to find 
His friend in merry pin. 

Returned him not a single word, 
But to the house went in ; 


And thus unto the youth she said. 

That drove them to the Bell, 
" This shall be yours when you bring back 

My husband safe and well." 


Whence straight he came with hat and wig : 

A wig that flowed behind, 
A hat not much the worse for wear — 

Each comely in its kind. 


The youth did ride, and soon did meet 
John coming back amain — 

Whom in a trice he tried to stop, 
By catching at his rein ; 


He held them up, and in his turn 
Thus showed his ready wit — 

" My head is twice as big as yours. 
They therefore needs must fit. 


But not performing what be meant. 
And gladly would have done. 

The frighted steed he frighted more. 
And made him faster run. 


" But let me scrape the dirt away 
That hangs upon your face ; 

And stop and eat, for well you may 
Be in a hungry case." • 


Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went post-boy at his heels, 
The post-boy's horse right glad to miss 

The lumbering of the wheels. 


Said John, " It is my wedding day, 
And all the world would stare 

If wife should dine at Edmonton, 
And I should dine at Ware." 


Six gentlemen upon the road. 

Thus seeing Gilpin fly. 
With post-boy scampering in the rear. 

They raised the hue and cry : 



AJSf ULEGY ON THE 


GLORY OF HER SEX. 455 


" Stop thief ! stop thief ! — a highwayman ! " 


As on his steed he galloped off, 


Not one of them was mute ; 


They a' came to the door ; 


And all and each that passed that way 


He gayly raised his feathered plume ; 


Did join in the pursuit. 


They set up sic a roar ! 


And now the turnpike gates again 


Their sighs, their cries, brought Willie back, 


Flew open in short space ; 


He kissed them ane and a' : 


The toll-men thinking, as before, 


" Oh, lasses, bide till I come hame. 


That Gilpin rode a race. 


And then I'll wed ye a' ! " 

Anonymous. 


And so he did, and won it too, 




For he got first to town ; 




Nor stopped till where he had got up 


^n ©legs on the ®loro of \]zx SeXi 


He did again get down. 


ittrs. iUorg Ma\}z. 


Now let us sing, long live the king ! 


Good people all, with one accord 


And Gilpin, long live he ; 


Lament for Madame Blaize, 


And when he next doth ride abroad. 


Who never wanted a good word — 


May I be there to see ! 


From those who spoke her praise. 


WlIilAM COWPEK. 






The needy seldom passed her door, 




And always found her kind ; 




She freely lent to all the poor — 


toillie's t)isit to iHclmlle Olostlc. 


Who left a pledge behind. 


Willie 's gane to Melville Castle, 


She strove the neighborhood to please. 


Boots and spurs and a', 


With manners wondrous winning; 


To bid the ladies a' farewell, 


And never followed wicked ways — 


Before he gaed awa'. 


Unless when she was sinning. 


The first he met was Lady Bet, 
Who led him through the ha'. 


At church, in silks and satins new. 


With hoop of monstrous size. 


And with a sad and sorry heart 


She never slumbered in her pew — 


She let the tears doon fa'. 


But when she shut her eyes. 




Her love was sought, I do aver. 


Near the fire stood Lady Grace, 


By twenty beaux and more ; 


Said ne'er a word ava ; 


The king himself has followed her — 


She thought that she was sure of him 


When she has walked before. 


Before he gaed awa'. 






But now, her wealth and finery fled, 


The next he saw was Lady Kate ; 


Her hangers-on cut short all ; 


" Guid troth, ye needna craw, 


The doctors found, when she was dead — 


Maybe the lad will fancy me. 


Her last disorder mortal. 


And disappoint ye a'." 






Let us lament in sorrow sore. 


Then down the stair skipped Lady Jean, 


For Kent Street well may say. 


The flower among them a' ; 


That had she lived a twelvemonth more. 


Oh, lasses, trust in Providence, 


She had not died to-day. 


And ye'll get husbands a'. 


Oliver Goldsmith. 



456 POEMS OF COMEDY. 




Since I can prevent 


iHassacre of tlie illacpl)crson. 


Any such intention." 




So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 


Phairshon swore a feud 


Gave some warlike howls, 


Against the elan M'Tavish — 


Trew his skhian-dhu, 


Marched into their land 


An' stuck it in his powels. 


To murder and to raflsh ; 




For he did resolve 


' 


To extirpate the vipers, 


In this fery way 

Tied ta faliant Fhairshon, 


With four-and-twenty men, 
And five-and-thirty pipers. 


Who was always thought 




A superior person. 




Fhairshon had a son. 


But when he had gone 

Half-way down Strath-Canaan, 
Of his fighting tail 


Who married Noah's daughter, 
And nearly spoiled ta flood 
By trinking up ta water. 


Just three were remainin'. 




They were all he had 




To back him in ta battle ; 


Which he would have done, 


All the rest had gone 


I at least believe it. 


Of[ to drive ta cattle. 


Had ta mixture peen 




Only half Glenlivet. 


" Fery coot ! " cried Fhairshon — 


This is all my tale : 


" So my clan disgraced is ; 


Sirs, 1 hope 'tis new t' ye ! 


Lads, we'll need to fight 


Here 's your fery good healths, 


Pefore we touch ta peasties. 


And tamn ta whusky tuty ! 


Here 's Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 


William Edmondstottne Attottn. 


Coming wi' his fassals — 




Gillies seventy-three, 




And sixty Dhuinewassels ! " 






0ir Sibncg Stnitli. 


" Coot tay to you, sir ! 




Are you not ta Fhairshon? 


Gentlefolks, in my time, I've made many a rhyme, 


Was you coming here 


But the song I now trouble you with. 


To visit any person ? 


Lays some claim to applause, and you'll grant it. 


You are a plackguard, sir ! 


because 


It is now six hundred 


The subject 's Sir Sidney Smith, it is ; 


Coot long years, and more, 


The subject 's Sir Sidney Smith. 


Since my glen was plundered." 




" Pat is tat you say ? 

Dar you cock your peaver ? 
I will teach you, sir, 

Pat is coot pehaviour ! 
You shall not exist 


We all know Sir Sidney, a man of such kidney, 

He'd fight every foe he could meet ; 
Give him one ship for two, and without more ado, 


He'd engage if he met a whole fleet, he would. 


He'd engage if he met a whole fleet. 


Por another day more ; • 




I will shot you, sir. 


Thus he took, every day, all that came in his way, 


Or stap you with my claymore ! " 


TiU fortune, that changeable elf, 




Ordered accidents so, that while taking the foe. 


" I am fery glad 


Sir Sidney got taken himself, he did. 


To learn what you mention. 


Sir Sidney got taken himself. 



TAM 0' SHANTEB. 457 


His captors, right glad of -the prize they now had, 


We there, in strife bewildering, 


Rejected each offer we bid, 


Spilt blood enough to swim in : 


And swore he should stay locked up till doomsday ; 


We orphaned many children. 


But he swore he'd be d d if he did, he did ; 


And widowed many women. 


But he swore he'd be hanged if he did. 


The eagles and the ravens 




We glutted with our foemen : 


So Sir Sid got away, and his jailer next day 


The heroes and the cravens. 


Cried, " Sacre, diable, morbleu. 


The spearmen and the bowmen. 


Mon prisonnier 'scape ; I 'ave got in von scrape. 




And I fear I must run away too, I must. 


We brought away from battle. 


I fear I must run away too ! " 


And much their land bemoaned them, 




Two thousand head of cattle, 


If Sir Sidney was wrong, why then blackball my 


And the head of him who owned them : 


song. 


Ednyfed, King of Dyfed, 


E'en his foes he would scorn to deceive ; 


His head was borne before us ; 


His escape was but just, and confess it you must. 


His wine and beasts supplied our feasts. 


For it only was taking French leave, you know. 


And his overthrow our chorus. 


It only was taking French leave. 


Thomas Love Peacock. 


Thomas Dlbdin. 




^\)& ItJar-Song of SDinas iDaror. 


QTcm o' 0l)anter. 


The mountain sheep are sweeter. 


Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke. 

Gawin Douglas. 


But the valley sheep are fatter ; 




We therefore deemed it meeter 


When chapman billies leave the street, 


To carry ofE the latter. 


And drouthy neebors neebors meet, 


We made an expedition ; 


As market-days are wearing late, 


We met an host and quelled it ; 


An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 


We forced a strong position. 


While we sit bousing at the nappy. 


And killed the men who held it. 


An' getting fou and unco happy. 




We think na on the lang Scots miles. 


On Dyfed's richest valley. 


The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, 


Where herds of kine were browsing, 


That lie between us and our hame. 


We made a mighty sally. 


Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame. 


To furnish our carousing. 


Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 


Fierce warriors rushed to meet us ; 


Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 


We met them, and o'erthrew them : 


This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, 


They struggled hard to beat us ; 


As he, frae Ayr, ae night did canter, 


But we conquered them, and slew them. 


(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses. 




For honest men and bonnie lasses). 


As we drove our prize at leisure. 


Tam ! hadst thou been but sae wise 


The king marched forth to catch us : 


As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 


His rage surpassed all measure, 


She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 


But his people could not match us. 


A bleth'ring, blust'ring, drunken blellum ; 


He fled to his hall-pillars ; 


That frae November till October, 


And, ere our force we led off, 


Ae market-day thou was na sober ; 


Some sacked his house and cellars, 


That ilka melder, wi' the miller. 


While others cut his head off. 


Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 



458 



POUMS OF C03IEDY. 



That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
That at the L — d's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirten Jean till Monday. 
She prophesied that, late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon ; 
Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirk. 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how monie counsels sweet, 
How monie lengthened sage advices. 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale : Ae market night 
Tam had got planted unco right, 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 
And at his elbow souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouth y crony — 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither — 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter. 
And ay the ale was growing better ; 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
Wi' favors secret, sweet, and precious ; 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus ; 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drowned himself amang the nappy ; 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure. 
The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure ; 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; 
Or like the snow-fall in the river, 
A moment white, then melts for ever ; 
Or like the borealis race. 
That flit ere you can point their places 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form. 
Evanishing amid the storm. 
Nae man can tether time or tide ; 
The hour approaches Tam maun ri(^e — 
That hour o' night's black arch the key- 

stane. 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; 
And sic a night he takes the road in 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 



The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattling showers rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed ; 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellowed ; 
That night a child might understand 
The Deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, 
(A better never lifted leg), 
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire — 
Whyles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, 
Whyles crooning o'er some auld Scots son- 
net, 
Whyles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh. 
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry. 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoored ; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak 's neck bane ; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Where Mungo's mither hanged hersel. 
Before him Doon pours all his floods : 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquabae we'll face the Devil ! — 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 
Pair play, he cared na Deils a bodle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonished, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonished, 
She ventured forward on the light ; 
And, wow ! Tam saw an unco sight ; 
Warlocks and witches in a dance : 
Nae cotillion brent new frae Prance, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
A winnock-bunker in the east. 
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast — 



TAM 0' SHANTER. 



459 



A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large — 

To gie them music was his charge ; 

He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl, 

Till roof an' rafter a' did dirl. 

CoflBns stood round like open presses. 

That shawed the dead in their last dresses ; 

And by some devilish cantrips sleight, 

Each in its cauld hand held a light — 

By which heroic Tam was able 

To note upon the haly table, 

A murderer's banes in gibbet aims : 

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns ; 

A thief, new cutted fra a rape, 

Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 

Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red rusted ; 

Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted ; 

A garter which a babe had strangled ; 

A knife a father's throat had mangled. 

Whom his ain son o' life bereft — 

The gray hairs yet stack to the heft ; 

Three lawyers' tongues turned inside out, 

Wi' lies seamed like a beggar's clout ; 

And priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck. 

Lay stinking, vile, in every neuk : 

Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu' 

Which ev'n to name would be imlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowred. amazed, and curious. 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious ; 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleckit. 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit. 
And coost her duddies to the wark. 
And linket at it in her sark. 

Now Tam, Tam ! had they been queans 
A' plump and strapping in their teens : 
Their sarks, instead of creeshie flannen. 
Been snaw- white seventeen-hunder linen ; 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair. 
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdles, 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 

But withered beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hag wad spean a foal, 
Lowping an' flinging on a crummoek — 
I wonder did na turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kenn'd what was what fxi' braw- 
lie. 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 



That night inlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ! 
For monie a beast to dead she shot. 
And perished monie a bonnie boat. 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear. 
And kept the country-side in fear), 
Her cutty-sark o' Paisley ham. 
That while a lassie she had worn — 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty. 
It was her best, and she was vaunty. 
Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots (twas a' her riches) — 
Wad ever graced a dance o' witches ! 

But here my Muse her wing maun cower, 
Sic flights are far beyond her power ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jad she was and Strang) ; 
And how Tam stood, like one bewitched, 
And thought his very een enriched. 
Ev'n Satan glowred, and fidged fu' fain. 
And hotched and blew wi' might and main, 
Till first ae caper, syne anither — 
Tam tint his reason a' thegither. 
And roars out, " "Weel done, Cutty-sark ! " 
And in an instant a' was dark ; 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied. 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
Wlien plundering herds assail their byke ; 
As open pussie's mortal foes. 
When pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
As eager runs the market-crowd. 
When Catch the thief ! resounds aloud; 
So Maggie runs — the witches follow, 
Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow. 

Ah, Tam ! ah, Tam ! thou '11 get thy 
fairin' ! 
In hell they '11 roast thee like a herrin ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' — 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane of the brig ; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss — 
A running stream they dare na cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make. 
The fient a tail she had to shake ; 
For Nannie, far before the rest. 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 



460 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought aff her master hale, 
But left behind her ain grey tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son take heed ; 
Whene'er to drink you are inclined. 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear. 
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. 

Egbert Btjkns. 



^Cologne. 

In Koln, a town of monks and bones. 

And pavements fanged with murderous stones, 

And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches — 

I counted two and seventy stenches, 

All well defined and several stinks ! 

Ye nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks. 

The river Rhine, it is well known. 

Doth wash your city of Cologne ; 

But tell me, nymphs I what power divine 

Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine ? 

Sajiubl Taylor Coleridge. 



®l)e JDcmrs Slioiiiglits. 

From his brimstone bed at break of day 

A walking the devil is gone, 
To visit his snug little farm, the earth. 

And see how his stock goes on. 

Over the hill and over the dale, 

And he went over the plain ; 
And backward and forward he switched his long 
tail, 

As a gentleman switches his cane. 

And how then was the devil drest ? 

Oh ! he was in his Sunday's best : 

His jacket was red and his breeches were blue. 

And there was a hole where the tail came through. 



He saw a lawyer killing a viper 
On a dunghill hard by his own stable ; 

And the devil smiled, for it put him in mind 
Of Cain and his brother Abel. 

He saw an apothecary on a white horse 

Ride by on his vocations ; 
And the devil thought of his old friend 

Death, in the Revelations. 

He saw a cottage with a double coach-house, 

A cottage of gentility ; 
And the devil did grin, for his darling sin 

Is pride that apes humility. 

He peeped into a rich bookseller's shop — 
Quoth he, " We are both of one college I 

For I sate, myself, like a cormorant, once, 
Hard by the tree of knowledge." 

Down the river did glide, with wind and with tide, 

A pig with vast celerity ; 
And the devil looked wise as he saw how, the while, 
It cut its own throat. " There ! " quoth he with a 
smile, 

" Goes England's commercial prosperity." 

As he went through Cold-Bath Fields he saw 

A solitary cell ; 
And the devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint 

For improving his prisons in hell. 

He saw a turnkey in a trice 

Fetter a troublesome blade ; 
" Nimbly," quoth he, " do the fingers move 

If a man be but used to his trade." 

He saw the same turnkey unfetter a man 

With but little expedition ; 
Which put him in mind of the long debate 

On the slave-trade abolition. 

He saw an old acquaintance 
As he passed by a Methodist meeting ; 

She holds a consecrated key. 
And the devil nods her a greeting. 

She turned up her nose, and said, 
" Avaunt ! — my name 's Religion ! " 

And she looked to Mr. , 

And leered like a love-sick pigeon. 



THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER. 



461 



He saw a certain minister, 

A minister to his mind, 
Go up into a certain house, 

With a majority behind ; 

The devil quoted Genesis, 

Like a very learned clerk, 
How " Noah and his creeping things 

Went up into the ark." 

He took from the poor, 

And he gave to the rich, 
And he shook hands with a Scotchman, 

For he was not afraid of the . 



General ■ 



-'s burning face 



He saw with consternation. 
And back to hell his way did he take — 
For the devil thought by a slight mistake 

It was a general conflagration. 

SAMtTEL Taylor Coleridge. 



a;i)e fag. 

The hag is astride, 

This night for to ride — 
The devil and she together ; 

Through thick and through thin. 

Now out and then in, 
Though ne'er so foul be the weather. 

A thorn or a burr 

She takes for a spur ; 
With a lash of the bramble she rides now ; 

Through brakes and through briers, 

O'er ditches and mires, 
She follows the spirit that guides now. 

No beast, for his food, 

Dares now range the wood. 
But husht in his lair he lies lurking ; 

While mischiefs, by these, 

On land and on seas, 
At noon of night are a-working. 

The storm will arise, 
And trouble the skies, 



This night ; and, more the wonder, 

The ghost from the tomb 

Affrighted shall come, 
Called out by the clap of the thunder. 

Robert Herrick. 



®l)c JTrienb of f utnanitg onir tlje Enife- 

FEIEND OF HUMANITY, 

" Needy knife-grinder ! whither are you going ? 
Rough is the road ; your wheel is out of order. 
Bleak blows the blast ; your hat has got a hole 
in't ; 

So have your breeches ! 

" Weary knife-grinder ! little think the proud ones, 
Who in their coaches roU. along the turnpike- 
Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day ' Knives 
and 

Scissors to grind ! ' 

"Tell me, knife-grinder, how came you to grind 

knives ? 
Did some rich man tyrannically use you ? 
Was it the squire ? or parson of the parish 1 
Or the attorney ? 

" Was it the squire for killing of his game ? or 
Covetous parson for his tithes distraining f 
Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little 
AU in a lawsuit % 

" (Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom 

Paine?) 
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids. 
Ready to fall as soon as you have told your 
Pitiful story." 

KNIFE-GEINDEK. 

" Story ! God bless you ! I have none to tell, sir ; 
Only, last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, 
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were 
Torn in a scuf&e. 

" Constables came up for to take me into 
Custody ; they took me before the justice ; 
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish- 
Stocks for a vagrant. 



462 



POEMS OF C03IEDY. 



" 1 should be glad to drink your honor's health in 
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence ; 
But for my part, I never love to meddle 
With politics, sir." 

FKIEND OP HUMANITY. 

" I give thee sixpence ! I will see thee damned first — 
Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to 

vengeance — 
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded. 
Spiritless outcast ! " 

[Kicks the hrdfe-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a 
transport of republican enthusiasm and uniiiersal philan- 
thropy.] 

George Canning. 



Song 

OF ONE ELEVEN YEARS IN PRISON. 

Whene'er with haggard eyes I view 
This dungeon that I'm rotting in, 
I think of those companions true 
Who studied with me at the U- 

niversity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 

[Weeps and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes 
his eyes ; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds ;] 

Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue. 

Which once my love sat knotting in — 
Alas, Matilda then was true ! 
At least I thought so at the U- 

niversity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 
[At the repetition of this line he clanks his chains in cadence.'] 

Barbs ! barbs ! alas ! how swift you flew, 

Her neat post-wagon trotting in ! 
Ye bore Matilda from my view ; 
Forlorn 1 languished at the U- 

niversity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 

This faded form ! this pallid hue*! 

This blood my veins is clotting in ! 
My years are many — they were few 
When first I entered at the U- 

niversity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 



There first for thee my passion grew, 

Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen ! 
Thou wast the daughter of my tu- 
tor, law-professor at the U- 

niversity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 

Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, adieu. 
That kings and priests are plotting in ; 
Here doomed to starve on water gru- 
el, never shall I see the U- 

niversity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 

[During the last stanza he dashes his head repeatedly against 
the walls of hisptison, and finally so hard as to produce a 
visible contusion. He then throws himself on the floor in 
an agony. The curtain drops, the music still continuing to 
play till it is wholly fallen.] 

George Canning. 



QTIfltn-Soujj. 

First catch your clams: along the ebbing edges 
Of saline coves you'll find the precious wedges 
With backs up lurking in the sandy bottom ; 
Pull in your iron rake, and lo ! you 've got 'em. 
Take thirty large ones, put a basin under, 
And deftly cleave their stony jaws asunder. 
Add water (three quarts) to the native liquor. 
Bring to a boil (and, by the way, the quicker 
It boils the better, if you'd do it cutely), 
Now add the clams, chopped up and minced mi- 
nutely, 
Allow a longer boil of just three minutes. 
And while it bubbles, quickly stir within its 
Tumultuous depths, where still the mollusks mutter. 
Four tablespoons of flour and four of butter, 
A pint of milk, some pepper to your notion. 
And clams need salting, although born of ocean. 
Remove from fire (if much boiled it will suffer — 
You'll find that India-rubber is n't tougher) ; 
After 'tis off add three fresh eggs, well beaten. 
Stir once more, and it 's ready to be eaten. 
Fruit of the wave ! Oh, dainty and delicious ! 
Pood for the gods ! Ambrosia for Apicius ! 
Worthy to thrill the soul of sea-born Venus, 
Or titillate the palate of Silenus ! 

William Andrews Crofput. 



TEE ESSENCE OF OPERA. 



463 



% VitztXT^i foir 0olab. 

To make this condiment your poet begs 
The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs ; 
Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve, 
Smoothness and softness to the salad give ; 
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl. 
And, half suspected, animate the whole ; 
Of mordent mustard add a single spoon, 
Distrust the condiment that bites so soon ; 
But deem it not, thou rnan of herbs, a fault 
To add a double quantity of salt ; 
Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca crown. 
And twice with vinegar, procured from town ; 
And lastly o'er the flavored compound toss 
A magic soup9on of anchovy sauce. 
Oh, green and glorious ! Oh, herbaceous treat ! 
'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat ; 
Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul, 
And plunge his fingers in the salad-bowl ; 
Serenely full, the epicure would say, 
" Fate cannot harm me, — I have dined to-day." 

Stdnbt Smith. 



@i:i}e Q^sscnce of ®i^txa; 

OR, ALMANZOR AND IMOGEN. 
A71 Opera, in Three Acts. 



SUB.rECT OF THE OPERA. 

A brave young prince a young princess adores ; 
A combat liills him, but a god restores. 



PROLOGUE. 

A Musician. People, appear, approach, ad- 
vance ! 

To Singers. 

You that can sing, the chorus bear ! 

To Dancers. 
You that can turn your toes out, dance ! 
Let 's celebrate this faithful pair. 

ACT I. 



Both. At length then we unite ! 

People, sing, dance, and show us your delight 1 
Chorus. Let 's sing, and dance, and show 'em 
our delight. 



ACT II. 



Imogen. love ! 



\_A 7ioise of war. The prince appews, pursued by his ene- 
mies. Combat. The piincess faints. Thejpfince is mor- 
tally wounded.l 1 

Almanzor. Alas ! 
Imogen. Ah, what ! 

Almanzor. I die I 

Imogen. Ah me ! 

People, sing, dance, and show your misery ! 
Chorus. Let 's sing, and dance, and show our 
misery. 

ACT ni. 

[Pallas descends in a cloud to Almanzor and speaJcs.l 
Pallas. Almanzor, live ! 
Imogen. Oh, bliss ! 

Almanzor. What do I see ? 

Trio. People, sing, dance, and hail this prodigy ! 
Chorus. Let's sing and dance, and hail this 
prodigy. 



ANONTMors. (French.) 



Anonymous Translation. 



Imogen. My love ! 
Almanzor. My soul ! 



^Bpocl)oni»riacii0. 

By myself walking. 
To myself talking 
When as I ruminate 
On my untoward fate, 
Scarcely seem I 
Alone sufficiently, 
Black thoughts continually 
Crowding my privacy. 
They come unbidden. 
Like foes at a wedding, 
Thrusting their faces 
In better guests' places, 
Peevish and malcontent, 
Clownish, impertinent. 
Dashing the merriment : 
So, in like fashions. 
Dim cogitations 



464 POEMS OF COMEDY. 


Follow and haunt me, 


Sorcerer ! that mak'st us dote upon 


Striving to daunt me. 


Thy begrimed complexion. 


In my heart festering, 


And, for thy pernicious sake. 


In my ears whispering — 


More and greater oaths to break 


" Thy friends are treacherous, 


Than reclaimed lovers take 


Thy foes are dangerous. 


'Gainst women ! Thou thy siege dost lay 


Thy dreams ominous." 


Much, too, in the female way. 




While thou suek'st the lab'ring breath 


Fierce anthropophagi. 


Faster than kisses, or than death. 


Spectres, diaboli — 




What scared St. Anthony — 


Thou in such a cloud dost bind us 


Hobgoblins, lemures, 


That our worst foes cannot find us. 


Dreams of antipodes ! 


And ill fortune, that would thwart us. 


Night-riding incubi 


Shoots at rovers, shooting at us ; 


Troubling the fantasy, 


While each man, through thy height'ning 


All dire illusions 


steam. 


Causing confusions : 


Does like a smoking Etna seem ; 


Pigments heretical. 


And all about us does express 


Scruples fantastical, 


(Fancy and wit in richest dress) 


Doubts diabolical ! 


A Sicilian fruitfulness. 


Abaddon vexeth me. 




Mahu perplexeth me ; 


Thou through such a mist dost show us 


Lucifer teareth me — 


That our best friends do not know us, 




And, for those allowed features 


Jesu ! Maria ! liberate nos ab his diris tenta- 


Due to reasonable creatures. 


tionibis Inimici. Charles Lamb. 


Liken'st us to fell chimeras. 




Monsters — that who see us, fear us ; 




Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, 


^ SaxtvazW to Stobacco. 


Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion. 


May the Babylonish curse 


Bacchus Ave know, and we allow 


Straight confound my stammering verse. 


His tipsy rites. But what art thou. 


If I can a passage see 


That but by reflex can'st shew 


In this word-perplexity. 


What his deity can do — 


Or a fit expression find, 


As the false Egyptian spell 


Or a language to my mind 


Aped the true Hebrew miracle ? 


(Still the phrase is wide or scant). 


Some few vapors thou may'st raise. 


To take leave of thee, great plant ! 


The weak brain may serve to amaze ; 


Or in any terms relate 


But to the reins and nobler heart 


Half my love, or half my hate ; 


Can'st nor life nor heat impart. 


For I hate, yet love, thee so, 




That, whichever thing I shew, 


Brother of Bacchus, later born ! 


The plain truth will seem to be 


The old world was sure forlorn. 


A constrained hyperbole, » 


Wanting thee, that aidest more 


And the passion to proceed 


The god's victories than, before. 


More for a mistress than a weed. 


All his panthers, and the brawls 




Of his piping Bacchanals. 


Sooty retainer to the vine ! 


These, as stale, we disallow, 


Bacchus' black servant, negro fine ! 


Or Judge of thee meant : only thou 



A FAREWELL 


TO TOBACCO. 465 


His true Indian conquest art ; 


That they do not rightly wot 


And, for ivy round his dart, 


Whether it be from pain or not. 


The reformed god now weaves 




A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. 


Or, as men, constrained to part 




With what 's nearest to their heart, 


Scent to match thy rich perfume 


While their sorrow 's at the height 


Cliemie art did ne'er presume — 


Lose discrimination quite. 


Through her quaint alembic strain, 


And their hasty wrath let fall. 


None so sovereign to the brain. 


To appease their frantic gall, 


Nature, that did in thee excel, 


On the darling thing, whatever. 


Framed again no second smell. 


Whence they feel it death to sever. 


Roses, violets, but toys 


Though it be, as they, perforce. 


For the smaller sort of boys. 


Guiltless of the sad divorce. 


Or for greener damsels meant ; 




Thou art the only manly scent. 


For I must (nor let it grieve thee. 




Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. 


Stinkingest of the stinking kind ! 


For thy sake, tobacco, I 


Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind I 


Would do anything but die, 


Africa, that brags her foyson. 


And but seek to extend my days 


Breeds no such prodigious poison ! 


Long enough to sing thy praise. 


Henbane, nightshade, both together, 


But, as she who once hath been 


Hemlock, aconite 


A king's consort, is a queen 




Ever after, nor will hate 


Nay, rather, 


Any title of her state 


Plant divine, of rarest virtue ! 


Though a widow, or divorced — 


Blisters on the tongue would hurt you ! 


So I, from thy converse forced, 


'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee ; ' 


The old name and style retain. 


None e'er prospered who defamed thee ; 


A right Catherine of Spain ; 


Irony all, and feigned abuse, 


And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys 


Such as perplext lovers use 


Of the blest tobacco boys ; 


At a need, when, in despair 


Where though I, by sour physician. 


To paint forth their fairest fair, 


Am debarred the full fruition 


Or in part but to express 


Of thy favors, I may catch 


That exceeding comeliness 


Some collateral sweets, and snatch 


Which their fancies doth so strike, 


Sidelong odors, that give life 


They borrow language of dislike ; 


Like glances from a neighbor's wife ; 


And, instead of dearest Miss, 


And still live in the by-places 


Jewel, honey, sweetheart, bliss, 


And the suburbs of thy graces ; 


And those forms of old admiring. 


And in thy borders take delight. 


Call her cockatrice and siren. 


An unconquered Canaanite. 


Basilisk, and all that's evil, 


Charles Lamb. 


Witch, hyena, mermaid, devil. 




Ethiop, wench, and blackamoor, 




Monkey, ape, and twenty more — 


iToitljlcss Nell^ ©rag. 


Friendly trait'ress, loving foe — 




Not that she is truly so, 


Ben Battle was a soldier bold, 


But no other way they know, 


And used to war's alarms ; 


A contentment to express 


But a cannon-ball took oil his legs. 


Borders so upon excess 
33 


So he laid down his arms. 



466 POEMS OF COMEDY. 


Now as they bore him ofE the field, 
Said he, " Let others shoot ; 

For here I leave my second leg. 
And the Forty-second foot." 


" I wish I ne'er had seen your face ; 

But, now, a long farewell ! 
For you will be my death : — alas ! 

You will not be my Nell ! " 


The army-surgeons made him limbs : 
Said he, " They 're only pegs ; 

But there 's as wooden members quite, 
As represent my legs." 


Now when he went from Nelly Gray 

His heart so heavy got, 
And life was such a burden grown, 

It made him take a knot. 


Now Ben he loved a pretty maid — 
Her name was Nelly Gray ; 

So he went to pay her his devours, 
When he devoured his pay. 


So round his melancholy neck 
A rope he did entwine. 

And, for his second time in life, 
Enlisted in the line. 


But when he called on Nelly Gray, 
She made him quite a scoff ; 

And when she saw his wooden legs, 
Began to take them off. 


One end he tied around a beam. 
And then removed his pegs ; 

And, as his legs were off, — of course 
He soon was off his legs. 


" Nelly Gray ! Nelly Gray ! 

Is this your love so warm ? 
The love that loves a scarlet coat 

Should be more uniform." 


And there he hung, till he was dead 

As any nail in town ; 
For, though distress had cut him up, 

It could not cut him down. 


Said she, " I loved a soldier once, 
For he was blithe and brave ; 

But I will never have a man 
With both legs in the grave. 


A dozen men sat on his corpse, 

To find out why he died — 
And they buried Ben in four cross-roads. 

With a stake in his inside. 


" Before you had those timber toes 

Your love 1 did allow ; 
But then, you know, you stand upon 

Another footing now." 


Thomas Hood. 

iTaitljless Soils Sroron. 


" Nelly Gray ! Nelly Gray ! 

For all your jeering speeches. 
At duty's call I left my legs 

In Badajos's breaches." 


Young Ben he was a nice young man, 

A carpenter by trade ; 
And he fell in love with Sally Brown, 

That was a lady's maid. 


" Why then," said she, " you 've lost the feet 

Of legs in war's alarms. 
And now you cannot wear your shoes 

Upon your feats of arms." < 


But as they fetched a walk one day, 
They met a press-gang crew ; 

And Sally she did faint away, 
Whilst Ben he was brought to. 


" false and ficlde Nelly Gray ! 

I know why you refuse ; 
Though I've no feet, some other man 

Is standing in my shoes. 


The boatswain swore with wicked words. 

Enough to shock a saint, 
That though she did seem in a fit, 

'Twas nothing but a feint. 




THE LADY AT SEA. 467 


" Come, girl," said he, " hold up your head — 


" Sally Brown, Sally Brown, 


He'U be as good as me ; 


How could you serve me so ? 


For when your swain is in our boat 


I've met with many a breeze before, 


A boatswain he will be." 


But never such a blow ! " 


So when they'd made their game of her, 


Then reading on his 'bacco-box, 


And taken off her elf, 


He heaved a heavy sigh, 


She roused, and found she only was 


And then began to eye his pipe, 


A-coming to herself. 


And then to pipe his eye. 


" And is he gone, and is he gone ? " 


And then he tried to sing " All 's Well ! " 


She cried, and wept outright ; 


But could not, though he tried ; 


"Then I will to the water-side, 


His head was turned — and so he chewed 


And see him out of sight." 


His pigtail till he died. 


A waterman came up to her ; 


His death, which happened in his berth. 


" Now, young woman," said he, 


At forty-odd befell ; 


" If you weep on so, you will make 


They went and told the sexton, and 


Eye-water in the sea." 


The sexton tolled the bell. 




Thomas Hood. 


" Alas ! they 've taken my beau, Ben, 




To sail with old Benbow ; " 




And her woe began to run afresh, 




As if she 'd said. Gee woe ! 


a:i)e tab^ ot Sea. 


Says he, " They 've only taken him 


Cables entangling her ; 


To the tender ship, you see." 


Ship-spars for mangling her ; 


" The tender ship," cried Sally Brown — 


Eopes sure of strangling her ; 


" What a hard ship that must be ! 


Blocks over-dangling her ; 




Tiller to batter her ; 


" Oh ! would I were a mermaid now, 


Topmast to shatter her; 


For then I'd follow him ; 


Tobacco to spatter her ; 


But oh ! — I'm not a fish woman, 


Boreas blustering ; 


And so I cannot swim. 


Boatswain quite flustering ; 




Thunder-clouds mustering. 


" Alas ! I was not born beneath 


To blast her with sulphur — 


The virgin and the scales, 


If the deep don't ingulf her ; 


So I must curse my cruel stars, 


Sometimes fear's scrutiny 


And walk about in Wales." 


Pries out a mutiny. 




Sniffs conflagration, 


Now Ben had sailed to many a place 


Or hints at starvation ; 


That 's underneath the world ; 


All the sea dangers, 


But in two years the ship came home. 


Buccaneers, rangers, 


And all her sails were furled. 


Pirates, and Sallee-men, 




Algerine galleymen, 


But when he called on Sally Brown, 


Tornadoes and typhons, 


To see how she got on. 


And horrible syphons, 


He found she'd got another Ben, 


And submarine travels 


Whose Christian-name was John. 


Thro' roaring sea-navels ; 



468 POEMS OF COIIEDY. 


Every thing wrong enough — 




Long-boat not long enough ; 


aiie tol)itc Squall. 


Vessel not strong enough ; 




Pitch marring frippery ; 


On deck, beneath the awning, 


The deck very slippery ; 


I dozing lay and yawning ; 


And the cabin — built sloping ; 


It was the gray of dawning, 


The captain a-toping ; 


Ere yet the sun arose ; 


And the mate a blasphemer, 


And above the funnel's roaring. 


That names his Redeemer — 


And the fitful wind's deploring. 


With inward uneasiness ; 


I heard the cabin snoring 


The cook known by greasiness ; 


With universal nose. 


The victuals beslubbered ; 


I could hear the passengers snorting — 


Her bed — in a cupboard ; 


I envied their disporting — 


Things of strange christening, 


Vainly I was courting 


Snatched in her listening ; 


The pleasure of a doze. 


Blue lights and red lights, 




And mention of dead lights ; 


So I lay, and wondered why light 


And shrouds made a theme of — 


Came not, and watched the twilight, 


Things horrid to dream of ; 


And the glimmer of the skylight. 


And buoys in the water ; 


That shot across the deck ; 


To fear all exhort her ; 


And the binnacle pale and steady, 


Her friend no Leander — 


And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye. 


Herself no sea gander ; 


And the sparks in fiery eddy 


And ne'er a cork jacket 


That whirled from the chimney neck. 


On board of the packet ; 


In our jovial floating prison 


The breeze still a-stiflening; 


There was sleep from fore to mizzen. 


The trumpet quite deafening ; 


And never a star had risen 


Thoughts of repentance. 


The hazy sky to speck. 


And doomsday, and sentence; 




Every thing sinister — 


Strange company we harbored ; 


Not a church minister ; 


We'd a hundred Jews to larboard. 


Pilot a blunderer ; 


Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered — 


Coral reefs under her. 


Jews black, and brown, and gray. 


Ready to sunder her : 


With terror it would seize ye, 


Trunks tipsy-topsy ; 


And make your souls uneasy, 


The ship in a dropsy ; ' 


To see those Rabbis greasy. 


Waves oversurging her ; 


Who did nought but scratch and pray. 


Sirens a-dirging her ; 


Their dirty children puking — 


Sharks all expecting her ; 


Their dirty saucepans cooking — 


Sword-fish dissecting her ; 


Their dirty fingers hooking 


Crabs with their hand-vices 


Their swarming fleas away. 


Punishing land vices ; 




Sea-dogs and unicorns, 


To starboard Turks and Greeks were — 


Things with no puny hor^s ; 


Whiskered and brown their cheeks were — 


Mermen carnivorous — 


Enormous wide their breeks were — 


" Good Lord deliver us ! " 


Their pipes did pufE away ; 


Thomas Hood. 


Each on his mat allotted 




In silence smoked and squatted, 




Whilst round their children trotted 



TEE WEITE SQUALL. 469 


In pretty, pleasant play. 


And the Turkish women for'ard 


He can't but smile who traces 


Were frightened and behorrored. 


The smiles on those brown faces, 


And, shrieking and bewildering. 


And the pretty, prattling graces 


The mothers clutched their children ; 


Of those small heathens gay. 


The men sang " Allah ! Illah ! 




Mashallah Bismillah ! " 


And so the hours kept tolling — 


As the warring waters doused them, , 


And through the ocean rolling 


And splashed them and soused them ; 


Went the brave Iberia bowling, 


And they called upon the prophet. 


Before the break of day 


And thought but little of it. 


When a squall, upon a sudden. 


Then all the fleas in Jewry 


Came o'er the waters scudding ; 


Jumped up and bit like fury : 


And the clouds began to gather. 


And the progeny of Jacob 


And the sea was lashed to lather. 


Did on the main-deck wake up, 


And the lowering thunder grumbled, 


(I wot those greasy Rabbins 


And the lightning jumped and tumbled ; 


Would never pay for cabins ; ) 


And the ship, and all the ocean. 


And each man moaned and jabbered in 


Woke up in wild commotion. 


His filthy Jewish gabardine, 


Then the wind set up a howling, 


In woe and lamentation, 


And the poodle dog a yowling. 


And howling consternation. 


And the cocks began a crowing. 


And the splashing water drenches 


And the old cow raised a lowing. 


Their dirty brats and wenches ; 


As she heard the tempest blowing ; 


And they crawl from bales and benches. 


And fowls and geese did cackle ; 


In a hundred thousand stenches. 


And the cordage and the taclde 




Began to shriek and crackle ; 


This was the white squall famous, 


And the spray dashed o'er the funnels, 


Which latterly o'ercame us, 


And down the deck in runnels ; 


And which all will remember. 


And the rushing water soaks all, 


On the 28th September ; 


From the seamen in the fo'ksal 


When a Prussian captain of Lancers 


To the stokers, whose black faces 


(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers) 


Peer out of their bed-places ; 


Came on the deck astonished. 


And the captain he was bawling. 


By that wild squall admonished. 


And the sailors pulling, hauling. 


And wondering cried, " Potz tausend, 


And the quarter-deck tarpauling 


Wie ist der Sturm jetzt brausend ? " 


Was shivered in the squalling ; 


And looked at Captain Lewis, 


And the passengers awaken, 


Who calmly stood and blew his 


Most pitifully shaken ; 


Cigar in all the bustle. 


And the steward jumps up, and hastens 


And scorned the tempest's tussle ; 


For the necessary basins. 


And oft we've thought thereafter 




How he beat the storm to laughter ; 


Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered. 


For well he knew his vessel 


And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered. 


With that vain wind could wrestle ; 


As the plunging waters met them. 


And when a wreck we thought her, 


And splashed and overset them, 


And doomed ourselves to slaughter. 


And they called in their emergence 


How gayly he fought her. 


Upon countless saints and virgins ; 


And through the hubbub brought her, 


And their marrow-bones are bended, 


And as the tempest caught her. 


And they think the world is ended. 


Cried, " George, some brandy and water ! " 



470 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



And when, its force expended, 
The harmless storm was ended, 
And as the sunrise splendid 

Came blushing o'er the sea, — 
I thought, as day was breaking, 
My little girls were waking. 
And smiling, and making 

A prayer at home for me. 

William Makepeace Thackbkat. 



Ben Bobstay, a tar of the Jolly old sort, 
Could keel-haul a main-brace and luff hard a-port ; 
And Ben he was smiled on by Sue, Meg, and Moll, 
But all o'er the world he was faithful to Poll. 

Faithful to Poll, 

Tol de rol lol ! 
Wherever he sailed he was faithful to Poll. 

'Twas just past six bells when the ship sprung a 

leak 
Nor'west o' the point of the great Mozambique ; 
Young Ben swam ashore, dried his clothes by Old 

Sol, 
And cried to his messmates, " I'm faithful to Poll ! " 
Faithful to Poll, 
Tol de rol lol ! 
He let 'em all drown, to be faithful to Poll. 

He met a princess, of the tribe Kikaroo ; 

She ogled and eyed him. Says Ben, "How d'ye 

do?" 
Says she, " Marry me ; on a throne you shall loll." 
Says Ben, " You'll excuse me ; I'm faithful to Poll." 

Faithful to Poll, 

Tol de rol lol ! 
Says Ben, with a bow, " Miss, I'm faithful to Poll." 

Says she, "If you don't, you'll be hung up and 

killed." 
Says Ben, " You fair creatures are all^o self-willed." 
So he gave her his hand to avoid sus per coll., 
But still in his heart he was faithful to Poll. 

Faithful to Poll, 

Tol de rol lol ! 
He married her, saying, " I'm faithful to Poll." 



Another princess, all gold rings and tattoo, 
Saw Ben, and was jealous of Miss Kikaroo. 
Says Ben, " Fight it out, while I sit on a knoll ; 
If t'other kills both, stiU I'm faithful to Poll." 

Faithful to Poll, 

Tol de rol lol ! 
" Whichever kills either, I'm faithful to Poll." 

Their battle surpasses my figures of speech ; 
They each whacked the other, and t'other whacked 

each; 
Then both lay down stiff as a jointed wood doll. 
And Ben sings aloud, " Ain't I faithful to Poll ? " 

Faithful to PoU, 

Tol de rol lol ! 
Ben capers while singing, " I'm faithful to Poll ! " 

They both then revived and jumped wildly on 

him; 
But Ben saw a ship, so he jumped off to swim. 
The captain calls out, " Your brave deed I extol. 
In England I'll tell them you 're faithful to Poll." 

Faithful to Poll, 

Tol de rol lol ! 
" Good-by," says the captain, "be faithful to Poll." 

He breasted the waves and he fought with the 

breeze. 
Till exhausted he landed on Stockton-on-Tees ; 
And thence, for a chance, he walked on to Bristol, 
Where he clearly explained he'd been faithful to Poll. 
Faithful to Poll, 
Tol de rol lol ! 
He married, and always was faithful to Poll. 

Anonymous. 



^[\t ©rigin of Jrclanb. 

With due condescension, I'd call your attention 
To what I shall mention of Erin so green. 
And without hesitation I will show how that nation 
Became of creation the gem and the queen. 

'Twas early one morning, without any warning, 
That Venus was born in the beautiful say, 
And by the same token, and sure 'twas provoking. 
Her pinions were soaking and would n't give play. 



ST. PATRICK WAS A GENTLEMAN. 



471 



Old Neptune, who knew her, began to pursue her, 
In order to woo her — the wicked old Jew — 
And almost had caught her atop of the water — 
Great Jupiter's daughter ! — which never would do. 

But Jove, the great janius, looked down and saw 
Vanus, 

And Neptune so heinous pursuing her wild, 

And he spoke out in thunder, he'd rend him asun- 
der — 

And sure 'twas no wonder — for tazing his child. 

A star that was flying hard by him espying. 
He caught with small trying, and down let it snap ; 
It fell quick as winking, on Neptune a-sinking. 
And gave him, I'm thinking, a bit of a rap. 

That star it was dry land, both low land and high 

land. 
And formed a sweet island, the land of my birth ; 
Thus plain is the story, that sent down from glory. 
Old Erin asthore as the gem of the earth ! 

Upon Erin nately jumped Venus so stately. 
But fainted, kase lately so hard she was pressed — 
Which much did bewilder, but ere it had killed her 
Her father distilled her a drop of the best. 

That sup was victorious, it made her feel glorious — 
A little uproarious, I fear it might prove — 
So how can you blame us that Ireland 's so famous 
For drinking and beauty, for fighting and love ? 

Anontmotts. 



St. |)otrick tufls a ©entlctnon. 

Oh ! St. Patrick was a gentleman. 

Who came of decent people ; 
He built a church in Dublin town. 

And on it put a steeple. 
His father was a Gallagher ; 

His mother was a Brady ; 
His aunt was an O'Shaughnessy, 

His uncle an O'Grady. 

So, success attend St. Patrick's fist, 
For he 's a saint so clever ; 

Oh ! he gave the snakes and toads a twist, 
And bothered them for ever ! 



The Wicklow hills are very high. 

And so 's the HLll of Howth, sir ; 
But there 's a hill, much bigger still. 

Much higher nor them both, sir. 
'Twas on the top of this high hill 

St. Patrick preached his sarmint 
That drove the frogs into the bogs, 

And banished all the varmint. 

There 's not a mile in Ireland's isle 

Where dirty varmin musters, 
But there he put his dear fore-foot, 

And murdered them in clusters. 
The toads went pop, the frogs went hop. 

Slap-dash into the water ; 
And the snakes committed suicide 

To save themselves from slaughter. 

Nine hundred thousand reptiles blue 

He charmed with sweet discourses. 
And dined on them at Killaloe 

In soups and second courses. 
Where blind-worms crawling in the grass 

Disgusted all the nation. 
He gave them a rise which opened their eyes 

To a sense of their situation. 

No wonder that those Irish lads 

Should be so gay and frisky. 
For sure St. Pat he taught them that, 

As well as making whiskey ; 
No wonder that the saint himself 

Should understand distilling. 
Since his mother kept a shebeen-shop 

In the town of EnniskUlen, 

Oh ! was I but so fortunate 
As to be back in Munster, 
'Tis I'd be bound that from that ground 

I never more would once stir. 
For there St. Patrick planted turf, 

And plenty of the praties. 
With pigs galore, ma gra, ma 'store. 
And cabbages — and ladies ! 
Then my blessing on St. Patrick' s fist. 

For he 's the darling saint oh ! 
Oh ! he gave the snakes and toads a twist ; 
He's a beauty without paint oh ! 

Henbt Bennett. 



473 POEMS OF COMEDY. 




" A miracle ! " every one said — 


St. J)atrick of Irclanb, mg JUear ! 


And they all took a haul at the stingo ; 




They were capital hands at the trade, 


A FIG for St. Denis of France — 


And drank till they fell ; yet, by jingo, 


He 's a trumpery fellow to brag on ; 


The pot still frothed over the brim. 


A fig for St. George and his lance, 




"Which spitted a heathenish dragon ; 


Next day, quoth his host, " 'Tis a fast, 


And the saints of the Welshman or Scot 


And I've nought in my larder but mutton ; 


Are a couple of pitiful pipers, 


And on Fridays who'd make such repast, 


Both of whom may just travel to pot. 


Except an unchristian-like glutton ? " 


Compared with that patron of swipers — 


Says Pat, "Cease your nonsense, I beg — 


St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear ! 


What you tell me is nothing but gammon ; 




Take my compliments down to the leg, 


He came to the Emerald Isle 


And bid it come hither a salmon ! " 


On a lump of a paving-stone mounted ; 


And the leg most politely complied. 


The steamboat he beat by a mile. 




Which mighty good sailing was counted. 


You 've heard, I suppose, long ago, 


Says he, " The salt water, I think, ■ 


How the snakes, in a manner most antic, 


Has made me most bloodily thirsty ; 


He marched to the county Mayo, 


So bring me a flagon of drink 


And trundled them into th' Atlantic. 


To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye ! 


Hence, not to use water for drink, 


Of drink that is fit for a saint ! " 


The people of Ireland determine — 


'■ 


With mighty good reason, I think. 


He preached, then, with wonderful force, 


Since St. Patrick has filled it with vermin 


The ignorant natives a-teaching ; 


And vipers, and other such stuff ! 


With a pint he washed down his discourse. 




"For," says he, "I detest your dry preach- 


Oh ! he was an elegant blade 


ing." 


As you'd meet from Pairhead to Kilcrumper ; 


The people, with wonderment struck 


And though under the sod he is laid. 


At a pastor so pious and civil, 


Yet here goes his health in a bumper ! 


Exclaimed — " We're for you, my old buck ! 


I wish he was here, that my glass 


And we pitch our blind gods to the devil. 


He might by ai-t magic replenish ; 


Who dwells in hot water below ! " 


But since he is not — why, alas ! 




My ditty must come to a finish, — 


This ended, our worshipful spoon 


Because all the liquor is out ! 


Went to visit an elegant fellow, 


William MAeiHN. 


Whose practice, each cool afternoon, 




Was to get most delightfully mellow. 




That day, with a black-jack of beer. 
It chanced he was treating a party ; 


Qll)c ^roues of JBIarneg. 


Says the saint — " This good day, do you hear, 


The groves of Blarney they look so charming. 


I drank nothing to speak of, my hearty ! 


Down by the purlings of sweet silent brooks — 


So give me a pull at the, pot ! " 


All decked by posies, that spontaneous grow there. 




Planted in order in the rocky nooks. 


The pewter he lifted in sport 


'Tis there 's the daisy, and the sweet carnation, 


(Believe me, I tell you no fable) ; 


The blooming pink, and the rose so fair ; 


A gallon he drank from the quart, 


Likewise the lily, and the daffodilly — 


And then placed it full on the table. 


All flowers that scent the sweet, open air. 



THE IRISHMAN. 



473 



'Tis Lady Jeffers owns this plantation, 

Like Alexander, or like Helen fair ; 
There 's no commander in all the nation 

For regulation can with her compare. 
Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder 

Could ever plunder her place of strength ; 
But Oliver Cromwell, he did her pommel, 

And made a breach in her battlement. 

There 's gravel walks there for speculation. 

And conversation in sweet solitude ; 
'Tis there the lover may hear the dove, or 

The gentle plover, in the afternoon. 
And if a young lady should be so engaging 

As to walk alone in those shady bowers, 
'Tis there her courtier he may transport her 

In some dark fort, or under the ground. 

For 'tis there's the cave where no daylight en- 
ters, 

But bats and badgers are for ever bred ; 
Being mossed by natur', that makes it sweeter 

Than a coach and six, or a feather bed. 
'Tis there 's the lake that is stored with perches. 

And comely eels in the verdant mud ; 
Besides the leeches, and the groves of beeches, 

All standing in order for to guard the flood. 

'Tis there 's the kitchen hangs many a flitch in. 

With the maids a-stitching upon the stair ; 
The bread and biske', the beer and whiskey. 

Would make you frisky if you were there. 
'Tis there you'd see Peg Murphy's daughter 

A washing praties foment the door. 
With Eoger Cleary, and Father Healy, 

All blood relations to my Lord Donough- 
more. 

There 's statues gracing this noble place in, 

All heathen goddesses so fair — 
l5old Neptune, Plutarch, and Nicodemus, 

All standing naked in the open air. 
So now to finish this brave narration. 

Which my poor geni' could not entwine ; 
But were I Homer, or Nebuchadnezzar, 

'Tis in every feature I would make it shine. 

RicHAKD Alfred Millikin. 



QElje Srisliman. 

There was a lady lived at Leith, 

A lady very stylish, man — 
And yet, in spite of all her teeth. 
She fell in love with an Irishman — 
A nasty, ugly Irishman — 
A wild, tremendous Irishman — 
A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, 
roaring Irishman. 

His face was no ways beautiful. 

For with small-pox 'twas scarred across ; 
And the shoulders of the ugly dog 
Were almost double a yard across. 
Oh, the lump of an Irishman — 
The v/hiskey-devouring Irishman — 
The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue — 
the fighting, rioting Irishman ! 

One of his eyes was bottle green. 

And the other eye was out, my dear ; 
And the calves of his wicked-looking legs 
Were more than two feet about, my dear ! 
Oh, the great big Irishman — 
The rattling, battling Irishman — 
The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, 
leathering swash of an Irishman. 

He took so much of Lundy-foot 

That he used to snort and snufSe oh ; 
And in shape and size the fellow's neck 
Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo. 
Oh, the horrible Irishman — 
The thundering, blundering Irishman — 
The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, 
hashing Irishman. 

His name was a terrible name, indeed. 

Being Timothy Thady Mulligan ; 
And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch 
He'd not rest till he filled it full again ; 
The boozing, bruising Irishman — 
The 'toxicated Irishman — 
The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no 
dandy Irishman. 

This was the lad the lady loved. 
Like all the girls of quality ; 



474 POEMS OF COMEDY. 


And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith, 


'Tis he will sheathe that battle-axe in Saxon 


Just by the way of jollity ; 


gore; 


Oh, the leathering Irishman — 


And MitehU of Belfast 


The barbarous, savage Irishman — 


We bade to our repast, 


The hearts of the maids and the gentlemen's heads 


To dthrink a dish of coffee on the Shannon shore. 


were bothered I'm sure by this Irishman. 




William MAGiNif. 


Convaniently to hould 




These patriots so bould. 




We took the opportunity of Tim Doolan's store ; 


a:i)c Sattle of tmzxxtk. 


And with ornamints and banners 




(As becomes gintale good manners) 


Ye genii of the nation. 


We made the loveliest tay-room upon Shannon 


Who look with veneration, 


shore. 


And Ireland's desolation onsaysingly deplore. 




Ye sons of Gineral Jackson, 


'Twould binifit your sowls 


Who thrample on the Saxon, 


To see the butthered rowls. 


Attend to the thransaetion upon Shannon shore. 


The sugar-tongs and sangwidges and craim gal- 




yore. 


When WiUiam, Duke of Schumbug, 


And the muffins and the crumpets, 


A tyrant and a humbug, 


And the band of harps and thrumpets. 


With cannon and with thunder on our city bore. 


To celebrate the sworry upon Shannon shore. 


Our fortitude and valliance 




Insthructed his battalions. 


Sure the imperor of Bohay 


To rispict the gallant Irish upon Shannon shore. 


Would be proud to dthrink the tay 




That Misthress Biddy Eooney for O'Brine did 


Since that capitulation, 


pour; 


No city in the nation 


And, since the days of Strongbow, 


So grand a reputation could boast before, 


There never was such Congo — 


As Limerick prodigious. 


Mitchil dthrank six quarts of it — by Shannon 


That stands with quays and bridges. 


shore. 


And ships up to the windies of the Shannon shore. 






But Clarndon and Corry 


A chief of ancient line. 


Connellan beheld this sworry 


'Tis William Smith O'Brine, 


With rage and imulation in their black hearts' 


Reprisints this darling Limerick this ten years or 


core; 


more; 


And they hired a gang of ruffins 


Oh the Saxons can't endure 


To interrupt the muffins. 


To see him on the flure. 


And the fragrance of the Congo on the Shannon 


And thrimble at the Cicero from Shannon shore ! 


shore. 


This valiant son of Mars 


When full of tay and cake, 


Had been to visit Par's, 


O'Brine began to spake. 


That land of revolution, that grows the tricolor ; 


But juice a one could hear him, for a sudden roar 


And to welcome his return , 


Of a ragamuffin rout 


From pilgrimages furren, 


Began to yell and shout, 


We invited him to tay on the Shannon shore. 


And frighten the propriety of Shannon shore. 


Then we summoned to our board 


As Smith O'Brine harangued. 


Young Meagher of the sword ; 


They batthered and they banged ; 



MOLONY'S LAMENT. 475 


Tim Doolan's doors and windies down they 


"With their music playing chunes, down upon us 


tore; 


bore; 


They smashed the lovely windies 


And they bate the rattatoo, 


(Hung -with muslin from the Indies), 


And the Peelers came in view, 


Purshuing of theii- shindies upon Shannon shore. 


And ended the shaloo on the Shannon shore. 




WiLLiAJi Makepeace Thackeray. 


"With throwing of brickbats, 




Drowned puppies and dead rats. 




These ruf&n democrats themselves did lower ; 




Tin kettles, rotten eggs. 


illobna's Cam ent. 


Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs, 




They flung among the patriots of Shannon shore. 


Tim, did you hear of thim Saxons, 




And read what the peepers repoort ? 


Oh, the girls began to scrame. 


They 're goan to recal the liftinant. 


And upset the milk and crame ; 


And shut up the castle and coort ! 


And the honorable jintlemin they cursed and 


Our desolate eounthry of Oireland 


swore : 


They 're bint, the blagyards, to desthroy ; 


And Mitchil of Belfast, 


And now, having murdthered our eounthry, 


'Twas he that looked aghast, 


They 're goin to kill the viceroy. 


When they roasted him in effigy by Shannon 


Dear boy ! — 


shore. 


'Twas he was our proide and our joy. 


Oh, the lovely tay was spilt 


And will we no longer behould him. 


On that day of Ireland's guilt ; 


Surrounding his carriage in throngs, 


Says Jack Mitchil, " I am kilt ! Boys, where 's the 


As he weaves his cocked hat from the win- 


back door ? 


dies. 


'Tis a national disgrace ; 


And smiles to his bould aid-de-congs ? 


Let me go and veil me face ! " 


I liked for to see the young haroes. 


And he boulted with quick pace from the Shannon 


All shoining with sthripes and with stars, 


shore. 


A horsing about in the Phaynix, 




And winking the girls in the cyars — 


" Cut down the bloody horde ! " 


Like Mars, 


Says Meagher of the sword. 


And smokin' their poipes and cigyars. 


" This conduct would disgrace any blackamoor ; " 




But millions were arrayed. 


Dear Mitchel, exoiled to Bermudies, 


So he shaythed his battle-blade. 


Your beautiful oilids you'll ope ! — 


Rethrayting undismayed from the Shannon shore. 


And there'll be an abondance of croyin 




From O'Brine at the Keep of Good Hope — 


Immortal Smith O'Brine 


"When they read of this news in the peepers. 


"Was raging like a line ; 


Acrass the Atlantical wave. 


'Twould have done your sowl good to have heard 


That the last of the Oirish liftinants 


him roar ; 


Of the oisland of Seents has tuck lave. 


In his glory he arose. 


God save 


And he rushed upon his foes. 


The queen — she should betther behave ! 


But they hit him on the nose by the Shannon 




shore. 


And what 's to become of poor Dame Sthreet, 




And who'll ait the puffs and the tarts. 


Then the f utt and the dthragoons 


Whin the coort of imparial splindor 


In squadthrons and platoons. 


From Doblin's sad city departs ? 



476 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



And who'll have the fiddlers and pipers 
When the deuce of a coort there remains ; 

And where'll be the bucks and the ladies, 
To hire the coort-shuits and the thrains? 

In sthrains 
It 's thus that ould Erin complains ! 

There 's Counsellor Flanagan's leedy, 

'Twas she in the coort didn't fail, 
And she wanted a plinty of popplin 

For her dthress, and her flounce, and her tail ; 
She bought it of Misthress O'Grady — 

Eight shillings a yard tabinet — 
But now that the coort is concluded, 

The divvle a yard will she get ; 
I bet, 

Bedad, that she wears the ould set. 

There 's Surgeon O'Toole and Miss Leary, 

They'd daylings at Madam O'Riggs' ; 
Each year, at the dthrawing-room sayson. 

They mounted the natest of wigs. 
When spring, with its buds and its daisies. 

Comes out in her beauty and bloom, 
Thim tu'll never think of new jasies, 

Because there is no dthrawing-room, 
For whom 

They'd choose the expense to ashume. 

There 's Alderman Toad and his lady, 

'Twas they gave the clart and the poort. 
And the poine-apples, turbots', and lobsters. 

To feast the lord lif tinant's coort. 
But now that the quality 's goin, 

I warnt that the aiting will stop, 
And you'll get at the alderman's teeble 

The divvle a bite or a dthrop, 
Or chop, 

And the butcher may shut up his shop. 

Yes, the grooms and the ushers are goin ; 

And his lordship, the dear, honest man ; 
And the duchess, his eemiable leedy ; 

And Corry, the bould Connellan : 
And little Lord Hyde and the childthren ; 

And the chewter and governess ttu ; 
And the servants are packing their boxes — 

Oh, murther, but what shall I due 
Without you ? 

Meery, with ois of the blue ! 

William Makepeace Thackekat. 



illr. illdong's Account of ll)c Ball 

GIVEN TO THE NEPAULESE AMBASSADOR BY THE 
PENINSULAR AND ORIENTAL COMPANY. 

Oh will ye choose to hear the news ? 

Bedad, I cannot pass it o'er : 
I'll tell you all about the ball 

To the Naypaulase ambassador. 
Begor ! this fete all balls does bate 

At which I worn a pump, and I 
Must here relate the splendthor great 

Of th' Oriental company. 

These men of sinse dispoised expinse. 

To fete these black Achilleses. 
" We'll show the blacks," says they, " Almack's, 

And take the rooms at Willis's." 
With flags and shawls, for these Nepauls, 

They hung the rooms of Willis up, 
And decked the walls, and stairs, and halls. 

With roses and with lilies up. 

And Jullien's band it tuck its stand, 

So sweetly in the middle there. 
And soft bassoons played heavenly chunes. 

And violins did fiddle there. 
And when the coort was tired of spoort, 

I'd lave you, boys, to think there was 
A nate buffet before them set, 

Where lashins of good dhrink there was ! 

At ten, before the ball-room door 

His moighty excellency was ; 
He sm oiled and bowed to all the crowd — 

So gorgeous and immense he was. 
His dusky shuit, sublime and mute, 

Into the door-way followed him ; 
And oh the noise of the blackguard boys. 

As they hurrood and hollowed him ! 

The noble chair stud at the stair. 

And bade the dthrums to thump ; and he 
Did thus evince to that black prince 

The welcome of his company. 
Oh fair the girls, and rich the curls, 

And bright the oys you saw there, was ; 
And fixed each oye, ye there could spoi. 

On Gineral Jung Bahawther was ! 



MIDGES. 



477 



This gineral great then tuck his sate, 

With all the other ginerals, 
(Bedad, his troat, his belt, his coat, 

All bleezed with precious minerals ;) 
And as he there, with princely air, 

Recloinin on his cushion was 
All round about his royal chair 

The squeezin and the pushin was. 

Pat, such girls, such jukes and earls, 

Such fashion and nobilitee ! 
Just think of Tim, and fancy him 

Amidst the hoigh gentility ! 
There was Lord De L'Huys, and the Porty- 
geese 

Ministher and his lady there ; 
And I reckonized, with much surprise, 

Our messmate, Bob O'Grady, there. 

There was Baroness Brunow, that looked like 
Juno, 

And Baroness Rehausen there, 
And Countess RouUier, who looked peculiar 

"Well in her robe of gauze, in there. 
There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first 

When only Mr. Pips he was), 
And Mick O'Toole, the great big fool. 

That after supper tipsy was. 

There was Lord Pingall and his ladies all, 

And Lords Itilleen and DufEerin, 
And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife — 

I wondther how he could stuff her in. 
There was Lord Belfast, that by me past, 

And seemed to ask how should I go there ; 
And the widow Macrae, and Lord A. Hay, 

And the marchioness of Sligo there. 

Yes, jukes and earls, and diamonds and pearls, 

And pretty girls, was spoorting there ; 
And some beside (the rogues !) I spied 

Behind the windies, eoorting there. 
Oh, there 's one I know, bedad, would show 

As beautiful as any there ; 
And I'd like to hear the pipers blow. 

And shake a fut with Fanny there ! 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



iUibgcs. 

She is talking esthetics, the dear clever creature ! 

Upon Man and his functions, she speaks with a 
smile. 
Her ideas are divine upon Art, upon Nature, 

The Sublime, the Heroic, and Mr. Carlyle. 

I no more am found worthy to join in the talk, 
now; 
So I follow with my surreptitious cigar ; 
WTiUe she leads our poetical friend up the walk, 
now. 
Who quotes Wordsworth and praises her 
TliougMs on a Star. 

Meanwhile, there is dancing in yonder green bower 
A swarm of young midges. They dance high 
and low. 

'Tis a sweet little species that lives but one hour. 
And the eldest was born half an hour ago. 

One impulsive young midge I hear ardently pouring 
In the ears of a shy little wanton in gauze. 

His eternal devotion ; his ceaseless adoring ; 
Which shall last till the universe breaks from its 
laws: 

His passion is not, he declares, the mere fever 
Of a rapturous moment. It knows no control : 

It will burn in his breast through existence for- 
ever, 
Immutably fised in the deeps of the soul ! 

She wavers : she flutters : . . . male midges are 
fickle : 
Dare she trust him her future? . . . she asks 
with a sigh : 
He implores, . . . and a tear is beginning to 
trickle : 
She is weak : they embrace, and . . . the lovers 
pass by. 

While they pass me, down here on a rose-leaf has 
lighted 
A pale midge, his feelers all drooping and torn : 
His existence is withered ; its future is blighted : 
His hopes are betrayed : and his breast is for- 
lorn. 



478 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



By the midge his heart trusted his heart is deceived 
now: 
In the virtue of midges no more he believes : 
From love in its falsehood, once wUdly believed, 
now 
He will bury his desolate life in the leaves. 

His friends would console him . . . the noblest 
and sagest 
Of midges have held that a midge lives again ; 
In Eternity, say they, the strife thou now wagest 
With sorrow, shall cease . . . but their words 
are in vain ! 

Can Eternity bring back the seconds now wasted 
In hopeless desire ? or restore to his breast 

The belief he has lost, with the bliss he once 
tasted, 
Embracing the midge that his being loved best ? 

His friends would console him . . . life yet is be- 
fore him ; 
Many hundred long seconds he still has to live : 
In the state yet a mighty career spreads before 
him; 
Let him seek in the great world of action to 
strive ! 

There is Fame ! there 's Ambition ! and, grander 
than either. 
There is Freedom ! . . . the progress and march 
of the race ! . . . 
But to Freedom his breast beats no longer, and 
neither 
Ambition nor action her loss can replace.- 

If the time had been spent in acquiring esthetics 
I have squandered in learning this language of 
midges, 

There might, for my friend in her peripatetics. 
Have been now two asses to help o'er the bridges. 

As it is, . . . I'll report her the whole conversation. 
It would have been longer ; but, somehow or 
other, 
(In the midst of that misanthrope's long lamenta- 
tion), 
A midge in my right eye became a young 
mother. 



Since my friend is so clever, I'll ask her to tell me 
Why the least living thing (a mere midge in the 

egg!) 
Can make a man's tears flow, as now it befell me . . . 
you dear clever woman, explain it, I beg ! 

Robert, Lord Lttton. 



St. ^mljong's Sermon Xo tl)c iTisljcB. 

St. Anthony at church 

Was left in the lurch. 

So he went to the ditches 

And preached to the fishes ; 
They wriggled their tails. 
In the sun glanced their scales. 

The carps, with their spawn, 

Are all hither drawn ; 

Have opened their Jaws, 

Eager for each clause. 
No sermon beside 
Had the carps so edified. 

Sharp-snouted pikes, 

Who keep fighting like tikes, 

Now swam up harmonious 

To hear St. Antonius. 
No sermon beside 
Had the pikes so edified. 

And that very odd fish. 

Who loves fast days, the cod-fish — 

The stock-fish, I mean — 

At the sermon was seen. 

No sermon beside 

Had the cods so edified. 

Good eels and sturgeon. 
Which aldermen gorge on. 
Went out of their way 
To hear preaching that day. 

No sermon beside 

Had the eels so edified. 

Crabs and turtles also, 
Who always move slow. 
Made haste from the bottom 
As if the devil had got 'em. 



THE VICAR OF BRAY. 479 


No sermon beside 


And this is law that Til maintain 


Had the crabs so edified. 


Until my dying day, sir, 




That whatsoever king shall reign, 


Fish great and fish small, 


Still Til be the vicar of Bray, sir. 


Lords, lackeys, and all, 




Each looked at the preacher, 
Like a reasonable creature : 


When William was our king declared 




To ease the nation's grievance, 


At God's word. 


O 7 

With this new wind about I steered, 


They Anthony heard. 


And swore to him allegiance ; 


The sermon now ended. 


Old principles I did revoke. 


Each turned and descended ; 


Set conscience at a distance ; 


The pikes went on stealing. 


Passive obedience was a joke. 


The eels went on eeling ; 


A jest was non-resistance. 


Much delighted were they. 


And this is law that Til maintain 


But preferred the old way. 


Until my dying day, sir. 


That whatsoever king shall reign, 


The crabs are backsliders. 


Still Til be the vicar of Bray, si?: 


The stock-fish thick-siders, 




The carps are sharp-set. 


When royal Anne became our queen. 


All the sermon forget ; 


The church of England's glory. 


Much delighted were they. 


Another face of things was seen. 


But preferred the old way. 


And I became a tory ; 


Anontmotjs. 


Occasional conformists base. 




I blamed their moderation ; 




And thought the church in danger was, 


^\)z bicar of JBrag. 


By such prevarication. 
And this is law that Til maintain 


In good King Charles's golden days. 
When loyalty no harm meant. 


Until my dying day, sir. 
That whatsoever king shall reign, 


A zealous high-churchman was I, 


Still Til be the vicar of Bray, sir. 


And so I got preferment. 




To teach my flock I never missed : 


When George in pudding-time came o'er, 


Kings were by God appointed, 


And moderate men looked big, sir. 


And lost are those that dare resist 


■My principles I changed once more. 


Or touch the Lord's anointed. 


And so became a whig, sir ; 


And this is law that Til maintain 


And thus preferment I procured 


Until my dying day, sir. 


From our new faith's defender ; 


That whatsoever king shall reign, 


And almost every day abjured 


Still Til he the vicar of Bray, sir. 


The pope and the pretender. 




And this is law that Til maintain 


When royal James possessed the crown, 


Until my dying day, sir. 


And popery grew in fashion. 


TJiat whatsoever king shall reign. 


The penal laws I hooted down. 


Still Til be the vicar of Bray, sir. 


And read the declaration ; 




The Church of Rome I found would fit 


Th' illustrious house of Hanover, 


Full well my constitution ; 


And Protestant succession. 


And I had been a Jesuit, 


To these I do allegiance swear — 


But for the revolution. 


While they can keep possession : 



480 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



For in my faith and loyalty 

I never more will falter, 
And George my lawful king shall be — 
Until the times do alter. 
And this is law that I'll maintain 

Until my dying day, sii; 
Tliat whatsoever Icing shall reign, 
Still I'll be the vicar of Bray, sir. 

Anonymous. 



^\)t \y 



\tax. 



Some years ago, ere time and taste 

Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, 
When Darnel Park was Darnel waste, 

And roads as little known as scurvy, 
The man who lost his way between 

St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket 
Was always shown across the green, 

And guided to the parson's wicket. 

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ; 

Pair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, 
Led the lorn traveller up the path, 

Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle ; 
And Don, and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, 

Upon the parlor-steps collected. 
Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say, 

" Our master knows you ; you 're expected." 

Up rose the reverend Doctor Brown, 

Up rose the doctor's " winsome marrow ; " 
The lady laid her knitting down, 

Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow. 
Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, 

Pundit or papist, saint or sinner, 
He found a stable for his steed, 

And welcome for himself, and dinner. 

If, when he reached his journey's end, 

And warmed himself in court or college, 
He had not gained an honest friend. 

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge ; 
If he departed as he came. 

With no new light on love or liquor. 
Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, 

And not the vicarage or the vicar. 



His talk was like a stream which runs 

With rapid change from rocks to roses ; 
It slipped from politics to puns ; 

It passed from Mahomet to Moses ; 
Beginning with the laws which keep 

The planets in their radiant courses, 
And ending with some precept deep 

For dressing eels or shoeing horses. 

He was a shrewd and sound divine. 

Of loud dissent the mortal terror ; 
And when, by dint of page and line. 

He 'stablished truth or startled error. 
The Baptist found him far too deep. 

The Deist sighed with saving sorrow, 
And the lean Levite went to sleep 

And dreamt of eating pork to-morrow. 

His sermon never said or showed 

That earth is foul, that heaven is gracious, 
Without refreshment on the road, 

From Jerome or from Athanasius ; 
And sure a righteous zeal inspired 

The hand and head that penned and planned 
them. 
For all who understood admired. 

And some who did not understand them. 

He wrote too in a quiet way, 

Small treatises, and smaller verses, 
And sage remarks on chalk and clay, 

And hints to noble lords and nurses ; 
True histories of last year's ghost ; 

Lines to a ringlet or a turban ; 
. And trifles for the " Morning Post ; " 

And nothings for Sylvanus Urban. 

He did not think all mischief fair, 

Although he had a knack of joking ; 
He did not make himself a bear, 

Although he had a taste for smoking ; 
And when religious sects ran mad. 

He held, in spite of all his learning. 
That if a man's belief is bad. 

It will not be improved by burning. 

And he was kind, and loved to sit 
In the low hut or garnished cottage. 

And praise the farmer's homely wit. 

And share the widow's homelier pottage. 



TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-NINE. 481 


At his approach complaint grew mild, 


Alas for human happiness ! 


And when his hand unbarred the shutter, 


Alas for human sorrow 1 


The clammy lips of fever smiled 


Our yesterday is nothingness — 


The welcome that they could not utter. 


What else wiU be our morrow 1 




Still beauty must be stealing hearts, 


He always had a tale for me 


And knavery stealing purses ; 


Of Julius Cassar or of Venus ; 


Still cooks must live by making tarts, 


From him I learned the inile of three, 


And wits by making verses ; 


Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Qum genus. 


While sages prate, and courts debate. 


I used to singe his powdered wig, 


The same stars set and shine ; 


To steal the staff he put such trust in, 


And the world, as it rolled through twenty- 


And make the puppy dance a jig 


eight. 


When he began to quote Augustine. 


Must roll through twenty-nine. 


Alack, the change ! In vain I look 


Some king will come, in Heaven's good time. 


For haunts in which my boyhood trifled ; 


To the tomb his father came to ; 


The level lawn, the trickling brook. 


Some thief will wade through blood and crime 


The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled ! 


To a crown he has no claim to ; 


The church is larger than before. 


Some suffering land will rend in twain 


You reach it by a carriage entry ; 


The manacles that bound her, 


It holds three hundred people more. 


And gather the links of the broken chain 


And pews are fitted for the gentry. 


To fasten them proudly round her ; 




The grand and great will love and hate. 


Sit in the vicar's seat ; you'll hear 


And combat and combine ; 


The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, 


And much where we were in twenty-eight 


Whose hand is white, whose voice is clear, 


We shall be in twenty-nine. 


Whose tone is very Ciceronian. 




Where is the old man laid f Look down 
And constnie on the slab before you — 

Hicjacet Gulielmus Broion, 
Vir nulla non donandus lauro. 


O'Connell will toil to raise the rent, 
And Kenyon to sink the nation ; 

And Shiel will abuse the Parliament, 
And Peel the association ; 


WlNTHROP MaCKWORTH PbAED. 


And thought of bayonets and swords 




Will make ex-chancellors merry ; 




And jokes will be cut in the house of lords. 


QCmenta-jeigl)! anir (EtDentn-nine. 


And throats in the county of Kerry ; 
And writers of weight will speculate 


I HEARD a sick man's dying sigh. 
And an infant's idle laughter : 


On the cabinet's design ; 
And just what it did in twenty-eight 


The old year went with mourning by — 


It will do in twenty-nine. 


The new came dancing after ! 




Let sorrow shed her lonely tear — 


And the goddess of love wUl keep her smiles. 


Let revelry hold her ladle ; 


And the god of cups his orgies ; 


Bring boughs of cypress for the bier — 


And there'll be riots in St. Giles, 


Fling roses on the cradle ; 


And weddings in St. George's : 


Mutes to wait on the funeral state, 


And mendicants will sup like kings. 


Pages to pour the wine : 


And lords will swear like lacqueys ; 


A requiem for twenty-eight. 


And black eyes oft will lead to rings, 


And a health to twenty-nine ! 
SS 


And rings wiH lead to black eyes ; 



482 POEMS OF COMEDY. 


And pretty Kate will scold her mate, 


It was August the third, 


In a dialect all divine ; 


And quite soft were the skies ; 


Alas ! they married in twenty-eight, 


Which it might be inferred 


They wUl part in twenty-nine. 


That Ah Sin was likewise. 




Yet he played it that day upon William 


My uncle will swathe his gouty limbs, 


And me in a way I despise. 


And talk of his oils and blubbers ; 




My aunt, Miss Dobbs, will play longer hymns, 


Which we had a small game, 


And rather longer rubbers : 


And Ah Sin took a hand ; 


My cousin in Parliament will prove 


It was euchre — the same 


How utterly ruined trade is ; 


He did not understand ; 


My brother, at Eton, will fall in love 


But he smiled as he sat at the table 


With half a hundred ladies ; 


With the smile that was childlike and 


My patron will sate his pride from plate. 


blaud. 


And his thirst from Bordeaux wine — 




His nose was red in twenty-eight. 


Yet the cards they were stocked 


'Twill be redder in twenty-nine. 


In a way that I grieve, 




And my feelings were shocked 


And oh ! I shall find how, day by day. 


At the state of Nye's sleeve. 


All thoughts and things look older — 


Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, 


How the laugh of pleasure grows less gay. 


And the same with intent to deceive. 


And the heart of friendship colder ; 




But still I shall be what I have been. 


But the hands that were played 


Sworn foe to Lady Reason, 


By that heathen Chinee 


And seldom troubled with the spleen, 


And the points that he made 


And fond of talking treason ; 


Were quite frightful to see, 


1 shall buckle my skate, and leap my gate. 


Till at last he put down a right bower. 


And throw and wiite my line ; 


Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 


And the woman I worshipped in twenty-eight 




I shall worship in twenty-nine. 


Then I looked up at Nye, 


WlNTHKOP MACKWORTH PrAED. 


And he gazed upon me; 




And he rose with a sigh, 




And said, " Can this be ? 




We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor ! " 


|)lain £anguoge from (Irutljf ul lames. 


And he went for that heathen Chinee. 


"Which I wish to remark — 


In the scene that ensued 


And my language is plain — 


I did not take a hand. 


That for ways that are dark, 


But the floor it was strewed 


And for tricks that are vain. 


Like the leaves on the strand 


The heathen Chinee is peculiar. 


With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding 


Which the same I would rise to explain. 


In the game he did not understand. 


Ah Sin was his name, • 


In his sleeves, which were long. 


And I shall not deny 


He had twenty-four packs, 


In regard to the same 


Which was coming it strong. 


What that name might imply ; 


Yet I state but the facts ; 


But his smile it was pensive and childlike, 


And we found on his nails, which were taper, 


As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. 


What is frequent in tapers — that's wax. 



HANS BREITMANN'S PARTY. 



483 



Which is why I remark — 

And my language is plain — 
That for ways that are dark, 

And for tricks that are vain, 
The heathen Chinee is peculiar, 

Which the same I am free to maintain. 
Bbet Hakte. 



j^ans Breitmanii's JJarts. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty, 

Dey had biano-blayin ; 
I felled in lofe mit a Merican Frau, 

Her name vas Madilda Yane. 
She hat haar as prown ash a pretzel. 

Her eyes vas himmel-blue, 
Und ven dey looket indo mine, 

Dey shplit mine heart in two. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty, 

I vent dere you'll pe pound. 
I valtzet mit Madilda Yane 

Und vent shpinnen round und round. 
De pootiest Fraeulein in de house, 

She vayed 'pout dwo hoondred pound, 
Und efery dime she gife a shoomp 

She make de vindows sound. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty, 

I dells you it cost him dear. 
Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecks 

Of foost-rate lager bier ; 
Und venefer dey knocks de shpicket in, 

De Deutschers gifes a cheer. 
I dinks dat so vine a barty 

Nefer coom to a het dis year. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty ; 

Dere all vas Souse \vn.& Brouse, 
Ven de sooper corned in, de gompany 

Did make demselfs to house ; 
Dey ate das Brot und Gensy broost, 

De Bratwurst und Braten fine, 
Und vash deir Abendessen down 

Mit four parrels of Neckarwein. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty, 
We all cot troonk ash bigs ; 



I poot mine mout to a parrel of bier 
Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs. 

Und denn I gissed Madilda Yane, 
Und she shlog me on de kop, 

Und de gompany fited mit dable-lecks 
Dill de coonslitable made oos shtop. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty — 

Where ish dat barty now ? 
Where ish de lofely golden cloud 

Dat float on de moundain's prow? 
Where ish de himmelstrahlende Stem — 

De shtar of de shpirit's light ? 
All goned afay mit de lager bier — 

Af ay in de ewigkeit ! 

Charles Godfrey Leland. 



Sollalr. 

Der noble Eitter Hugo 

Von Schwillensaufenstein 
Rode out mit shpeer und helmet, 

Und he coom to de panks of de Rhine. 

Und oop dere rose a meer-maid, 

Vot had n't got nodings on, 
Und she say, " Ritter Hugo, 

Vhere you goes mit yourself alone ? " 

Und he says, " I rides in de creenwood 

Mit helmet und mit shpeer. 
Till I cooms into ein gasthaus, 

Und dere I trinks some beer." 

Und den outshpoke de maiden 
Vot had n't got nodings on : ' 

" I ton't dink mooch of beeplesh 
Dat goes mit demselfs alone. 

" You'd patter coom down in de wasser, 
Vere dere's heaps of dings to see, 

Und hafe a shplendid tinner, 
Und drafel along mit me. 

" Dere you sees de fisch a-schwimmin, 
Und you catches dem efery one." 

So sang dis wasser maiden 
Vot hadn't got nodings on. 



484 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



" Dere ish drunks all full mit money, 

In ships dot vent down of old ; 
Und you helpsh yourself, by dunder ! 

To shimmerin crowns of gold. 

" Shoost look at dese shpoons und vatches ! 

Shoost see dese diamant rings ! 
Coom down und iill your bockets, 

Und I'll giss you like avery dings. 

" Vot you vantsh mit your schnapps und lager ' 

Coom down into der Rhine ! 
Der ish pottles der Kaiser Charlemagne 

Vonce filled mit gold-red wine ! " 

Dat fetched him — he shtood all shpell-pound ; 

She pooled his coat-tails down, 
She drawed him oonder der wasser, 

De maiden mit nodings on. 

Chaeles Godpket Leland. 



(Dljat iHr. Hobinson (|[t)inks. 

GuvENEB B. is a sensible man ; 

He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks ; 
He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, 
An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes ; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he wunt vote f er Guvener B. 

My ! ain't it terrible? Wut shall we du ! 

We can't never choose him o' course, — thet 's flat ; 
Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?) 
An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that ; 
Fer John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man : 

He's ben on aU sides thet give places or pelf ; 
But consistency stiU wuz a part of his plan, — 
He 's ben true to one party, — an' thet is himself ; 
So John P. • 

Robinson he 
Sez he shall vote for Gineral C. 

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war ; 

He don't vally principle more 'n an old cud ; 



Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer. 
But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood ? 
So John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 

We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village. 

With good old ideas o' wut 's right an' wut ain't. 
We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage, 
An' thet eppyletts wor n't the best mark of a saint ; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez this kind o' thing 's an exploded idee. 

The side of our country must oilers be took, 

An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country, 
An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book 
Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry ; 
An' John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. 

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies ; 

Sez they're nothin' on airth but Jest fee, faw, fum : 
An' that all this big talk of our destinies 
Is half on it ign'ance, an' t' other half rum ; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez it ain't no sech thing; an', of course, so 
must we. 

Parson Wilbiir sez he never heerd in his life 
Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail 
coats, 
An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, 
To git some on 'em oflBce, an' some on 'em votes ; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez they did n't know everythin' down in Judee. 

Wal, it 's a marcy we 've gut folks to tell us 
The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I 
vow, — 
God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers, 
To start the world's team wen it gits in a slough ; 
Fer John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez the world '11 go right, ef he hollers out Gee ! 
James Kussell Lowell. 



J 



PART YII. 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



The mournful funeral Blow proceeds behind, 

Arrayed in black, the heavy head declined ; 
Wide yawns the grave ; dull tolls the solemn bell ; 
Dark lie the dead ; and long the last farewell. 
There music sounds, and dancers shake the hall ; 
But here the silent tears incessant fall. 
Ere Mirth can well her comedy begin, 
The tragic demon oft comes thundering in. 
Confounds the actors, damps the merry show. 
And turns the loudest laugh to deepest woe. 

John Wilson. 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



Sir |)atrick Spcne. 

The king sits in Dunfermline town, 

Drinking the blude-red wine ; 
" Oh where will I get a skeely skipper 

To saU this new ship of mine ? " 

Oh up and spake an eldern knight, 

Sat at the king's right knee : 
" Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor 

That ever sailed the sea." 

Our king has written a braid letter, 

And sealed it with his hand, 
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 

Was walking on the strand. 

" To Noroway, to Noroway, 

To Noroway o'er the faem ; 
The king's daughter of Noroway, 

'Tis thou maun bring her hame ! " 

The first word that Sir Patrick read, 

Sae loud, loud laughed he ; 
The neist word that Sir Patrick read, 

The tear blindit his e'e. 

" Oh wha is this has done this deed, 

And tauld the king o' me, 
To send us out at this time of the year, 

To sail upon the sea ? 

" Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet. 

Our ship must sail the faem ; 
The king's daughter of Noroway, 

'Tis we must fetch her hame." 



They hoysed their sails on Monenday mom 

Wi' a' the speed they may ; 
They hae landed in Noroway 

Upon a Wodensday. 

They hadna been a week, a week 

In Noroway, but twae. 
When that the lords o' Noroway 

Began aloud to say : 

" Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's gowd 

And a' our queenis fee." 
" Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud ! 

Fu' loud I hear ye lie ! 

" For I hae brought as much white monie 

As gane my men and me, — 
And I hae brought a half-f ou o' gude red gowd 

Out owre the sea wi' me. 

" Make ready, make ready, my merry men a' ! 

Our gude ship sails the morn." 
" Now, ever alake ! my master dear, 

I fear a deadly storm ! 

" I saw the new moon, late yestreen, 

Wi' the auld moon in her arm ; 
And if we gang to sea, master, 

I fear we'll come to harm." 

They hadna sailed a league, a league, 

A league, but barely three. 
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew 
loud. 

And gurly grew the sea. 



488 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, 

It was sic a deadly storm ; 
And the waTes came o'er the broken ship 

Till a' her sides were torn. 


And lang, lang may the maidens sit, 
Wi' their gowd kaims in their hair, 

A' waiting for their ain dear loves, — 
For them they'll see na mair. 


" Oh where will I get a gude sailor 
To take my helm in hand, 

Till I get up to the tall topmast 
To see if I can spy land ? " 


Oh forty miles off Aberdour 

'Tis fifty fathoms deep. 
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens 

Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. 


" Oh here am I, a sailor gude, 
To take the helm in hand, 

Till you go up to the tall topmast, — 
But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." 


Anontmotts. 

^\\t JUoojie JDens of ^arroro. 


He hadna gane a step, a step, 

A step, but barely ane, 
When a boult flew out of our goodly ship, 

And the salt sea it came in. 


Late at e'en, drinking the wine, 
And ere they paid the lawing, 

They set a combat them between, 
To fight it in the dawing. 


" Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith, 

Another o' the twine. 
And wap them into our ship's side. 

And letna the sea come in." 


" Oh stay at hame, my noble lord ! 

Oh stay at hame, my marrow ! 
My cruel brother will you betray 

On the dowie houms of Yarrow." 


They fetched a web o' the silken claith, 

Another o' the twine. 
And they wrapped them roun' that gude ship's 
side, 

— But stUl the sea came in. 


" Oh fare ye weel, my ladye gaye ! 

Oh fare ye weel, my Sarah ! 
For I maun gae, though I ne'er return 

Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow." 


Oh laith, laith were our gude Scots lords 
To weet their cork-heeled shoon ! 

But lang or a' the play was played, 
They wat their hats aboon. 


She kissed his cheek, she kamed his hair. 
As oft she had done before, oh ; 

She belted him with his noble brand, 
And he 's away to Yarrow. 


And mony was the feather-bed 
That floated on the faem ; 

And mony was the gude lord's son 
That never mair came hame. 


As he gaed up the Tennies bank, 

I wot he gaed wi' sorrow. 
Till, down in a den, he spied nine armed men. 

On the dowie houms of Yarrow. 


The ladyes wrang their fingers white, — 
The maidens tore their hair ; 

A' for the sake of their true loves, — 
For them they'll see na mair. • 


" Oh come ye here to part your land. 
The bonnie forest thorough ? 

Or come ye here to wield your brand. 
On the dowie houms of Yarrow? " — 


Oh lang, lang may the ladyes sit, 
Wi' their fans into their hand. 

Before they see Sir Patrick Spens 
Come sailing to the strand ! 


" I come not here to part my land. 
And neither to beg nor borrow ; 

I come to wield my noble brand. 
On the bonnie banks of Yarrow. 



THE BRAES OF YARROW. 



489 



" If I see all, ye 're nine to ane ; 

And that 's an unequal marrow : 
Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand, 

On the bonnie banks of Yarrow. " 

Four has he hurt, and five has slain, 

On the bloody braes of Yarrow, 
Till that stubborn knight came him behind 

And ran his body thorough. 

" Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John, 

And tell your sister Sarah 
To come and lift her leaf u' lord ; 

He 's sleepin' sound on Yarrow." — 

" Yestreen I dreamed a dolefu' dream : 

I fear there will be sorrow ! 
I dreamed I pu'd the heather green, 

Wi' my true love, on Yarrow. 

" gentle wind, that bloweth south, 

From where my love repaireth. 
Convey a kiss from his dear mouth. 

And tell me how he fareth ! 

" But in the glen strive armed men ; 

They 've wrought me dole and sorrow ; 
They've slain — the comeliest knight they've 
slain — 

He bleeding lies on Yarrow." 

As she sped down yon high, high hill. 

She gaed wi' dole and sorrow. 
And in the den spied ten slain men. 

On the dowie banks of Yarrow. 

She kissed his cheeks, she kaimed his hair. 
She searched his wounds all thorough ; 

She kissed them, till her lips grew red, 
On the dowie houms of Yarrow. 

" Now haud your tongue, my daughter dear ! 

For a' this breeds but sorrow ; 
I'll wed ye to a better lord 

Than him ye lost on Yarrow." — 

" Oh haud your tongue, my father dear ! 

Ye mind me but of sorrow ; 
A faker rose did never bloom 

Than now lies cropped on Yarrow." 

Anonymous. 



Qtlie JSracs of ^ctrrora. 

" Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride ! 

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! 
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride. 

And think nae mail- of the braes of Yarrow." 

" Where got ye that bonnie, bonnie bride, 
Where got ye that winsome marrow f " 

" I got her where I daurna weel be seen, 
Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow." 

" Weep not, weep not, my bonnie, bonnie bride. 
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow ! 

Nor let thy heart lament to leave 

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow." 

" Why does she weep, thy bonnie, bonnie bride ? 

Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow f 
And why daur ye nae mair weel be seen 

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow ? " 

" Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she 
weep — 

Lang maun she weep wi' dule and sorrow ; 
And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen 

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow. 

" For she has tint her lover, lover dear — 
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow ; 

And I hae slain the comeliest swain 

That e'er pu'd birks on the braes of Yarrow. 

" Why runs thy stream, Yarrow, Yarrow red ? 

Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow ? 
And why yon melancholious weeds 

Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow ? 

" What 's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful 
flood? 

What 's yonder floats ? — Oh, dule and sorrow ! 
'Tis he, the comely swain I slew 

Upon the dulefu' braes of Yarrow. 

" Wash, oh wash his wounds, his wounds in 
tears. 

His wounds in tears o' dule and sorrow ; 
And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds. 

And lay him on the banks of Yarrow. 



490 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



" Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, 
Ye sisters sad, his tomb wi' sorrow ; 

And weep around, in waeful wise. 
His hapless fate on the braes of Yarrow ! 

" Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield. 
The arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, 

The fatal spear that pierced his breast. 
His comely breast, on the bra«s of Yarrrow ! 

" Did I not warn thee not to, not to love, 
And warn from fight I But, to my sorrow, 

T90 rashly bold, a stronger arm thou met'st. 
Thou met'st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow. 

" Sweet smells the birk ; green grows, green grows 
the grass ; 

Yellow on Yarrow's braes the gowan ; 
Fair hangs tlie apple frae the rock ; 

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowing ! " 

" Flows Yarrow sweet ? As sweet, as sweet flows 
Tweed ; 

As green its grass ; its gowan as yellow ; 
As sweet smells on its braes the birk ; 

The apple from its rocks as mellow ! 

" Fair was thy love ! fair, fair indeed thy love ! 

In flowery bands thou didst him fetter; 
Though he was fair, and well-beloved again. 

Than I he never loved thee better. 

" Busk ye, then, busk, my bonnie, bonnie bride ! 

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! 
Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed, 

And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow." 

" How can I busk a bonnie, bonnie bride ? 

How can I busk a winsome marrow ? 
How can I lo'e him on the banks of Tweed, 

That slew my love on the braes of Yarrow 3 

" Oh Yarrow fields, may never, never rain. 
Nor dew, thy tender blossoms cover ! 

For there was basely slain my love, 
My love, as he had not been a lov«r. 

" The boy put on his robes, his robes of green. 
His purple vest — 'twas my ain sewing; 

Ah, wretched me ! I little, little kenned 
He was, in these, to meet his ruin. 



" The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white 
steed. 

Unmindful of my dule and sorrow ; 
But ere the toofall of the night. 

He lay a corpse on the banks of Yarrow ! 

" Much I rejoiced that waefu', waefu' day; 

I sang, my voice the woods returning ; 
But lang ere night the spear was flown 

That slew my love, and left me mourning, 

" What can my barbarous, barbarous father do, 

But with his cruel rage pursue me ? 
My lover's blood is on thy spear — 

How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me ? 

" My happy sisters may be, may be proud ; 

With cruel and ungentle scoffing 
May bid me seek, on Yarrow braes, 

My lover nailed in his coffin. 

" My brother Douglas may upbraid. 

And strive, with threatening words, to" move 
me; 
My lover's blood is on thy spear — 

How canst thou ever bid me love thee ? 

" Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love ! 

With bridal-sheets my body cover ! 
Unbar, ye bridal-maids, the door ! 

Let in the expected husband-lover ! 

" But who the expected husband, husband is ! 

His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter ! 
Ah me ! what ghastly spectre 's yon 

Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after ! 

" Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down ; 

Oh lay his cold head on my pillow ! 
Take off, take off these bridal weeds. 

And crown my careful head with willow. 

" Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved, 
Oh could my warmth to life restore thee ! 

Yet lie all night within my arms — 
No youth lay ever there before thee ! 

" Pale, pale indeed. lovely, lovely youth ! 

Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, 
And lie all night within my arms. 

No youth shall ever lie there after ! " 



THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. 491 


" Return, return, mournful, mournful bride ! 


He promised me a wedding-ring — 


Return, and dry thy useless sorrow ! 


The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow ; 


Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs ; 


Now he is wedded to his grave. 


He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow." 


Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow ! 


William Hamilton. 


Sweet were his words when last we met : 




My passion I as freely told him ! 




Clasped in his arms, I little thought 


Bare toills ?DrotDneb in ^arroto. 


That I should never more behold him I 
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost ; 


" Willy 's rare, and Willy 's fair, 
And Willy 's wondrous bonny ; 
And Willy heght to marry me, 


It varfished with a shriek of sorrow ; 
Thrice did the water-wraith ascend. 
And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow. 


Gin e'er he married ony. 


His mother from the window looked. 


" Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid, 
This night I'll make it narrow ; 

For a' the livelang winter night 
I ly twined of my marrow. 


With all the longing of a mother ; 
His little sister weeping walked 

The green-wood path to meet her brother. 
They sought him east, they s'ought him west, 

They sought him all the forest thorough ; 


" Oh came you by yon water-side ? 
Pou'd you the rose or lily ? 


They only saw the cloud of night, 
They only heard the roar of Yarrow ! 


Or came you by yon meadow gi-een ? 


No longer from thy window look. 


Or saw you my sweet Willy ? " 


Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! 




No longer walk, thou lovely maid ; 


She sought him east, she sought him west. 


Alas, thou hast no more a brother ! 


She sought him braid and narrow ; 


No longer seek him east or west, 


Syne in the cleaving of a craig, 


And search no more the forest thorough, 


She found him drowned in Yarrow. 


For, wandering in the night so dark, 


Anonymous. 


He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow. 




The tear shall never leave my cheek. 




No other youth shall be my marrow ; 


Song. 


I'll seek thy body in the stream, 


Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream ! 
When first on them I met my lover ; 


And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow. 

John Logan. 


Thy braes how dreary. Yarrow stream ! 




When now thy waves his body cover. 


Qtlie JDouglas ©rogcbg. 


For ever now, Yarrow stream ! 

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow ; 
For never on thy banks shall I 

Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. 


" Rise up, rise up now, Lord Douglas," she says, 
" And put on your armor so bright ; 

Let it never be said that a daughter of thine 
Was married to a lord under night. 


He promised me a milk-white steed, 


" Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons. 


To bear me to his father's bowers ; 


And put on your armor so bright. 


He promised me a little page. 


And take better care of j'our youngest sister, 


To 'squire me to his father's towers ; 




For your eldest 's awa the last night." 



492 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



He 's mounted her on a milk-white steed, 

And himself on a dapple gray, 
With a bugelet-horn hung down by his side, 

And lightly they rode away. 

Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder, 

To see what he could see, 
And there he spy'd her seven brethren bold. 

Come riding o'er the lee. 

" Light down, light down, Lady Marg'ret," he said, 
" And hold my steed in your hand, 

Until that against your seven brethren bold. 
And your father, I mak a stand." 

She held his steed in her milk-white hand, 

And never shed one tear. 
Until that she saw her seven brethren fa'. 

And her father hard fighting, who loved her so 
dear. 

" hold your hand. Lord William ! " she said, 
" For your strokes they are wond'rous sair ; 

True lovers I can get many a ane. 
But a father I can never get mair." 

she 's ta'en out her handkerchief, 

It was o' the Holland sae fine. 
And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds. 

That were redder than the wine. 

" chuse, chuse, Lady Marg'ret," he said, 
" whether will ye gang or bide?" 

" I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said, 
" For you have left me no other guide." 

He 's lifted her on a milk-white steed. 

And himself on a dapple gray, 
With a bugelet-horn hung down by his side, 

And slowly they baith rode away. 

they rade on, and on they rade, 

And a' by the light of the moon, 
Until they came to yon wan water, 

And there they lighted down. « 

They lighted down to tak a drink 

Of the spring that ran sae clear ; 
And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood. 

And sair she gan to fear. 



" Hold up, hold up. Lord William," she says, 

" For I fear that you are slain ! " 
" 'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak. 

That shines in the water sae plain." 

they rade on, and on they rade, 

And a' by the light of the moon, 
UntU they cam' to his mother's ha' door. 

And there they lighted down. 

" Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, 

" Get up and let me in ! — 
Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, 

" For this night my fair ladye I've win. 

" mak my bed, lady mother," he says, 

mak it braid and deep ! 
And lay Lady Marg'ret close at my back. 

And the sounder I will sleep." 

Lord William was dead lang ere midnight. 

Lady Marg'ret lang ere day ; 
And all true lovers that go thegither. 

May they have mair luck than they ! 

Lord William was buried in St. Mary's kirk. 

Lady Marg'ret in Mary's quire ; 
Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose. 

And out o' the knight's a brier. 

And they twa met, and they twa plat. 

And fain they wad be near ; 
And a' the warld might ken right weel. 

They were twa lovers dear. 

But bye and rade the Black Douglas, 

And wow but he was rough ! 
For he pulled up the bonny brier, 

And flang'd in St. Mary's loch. 

Anonymous. 



Corb Kanlral. 

" Oh where hae ye been. Lord Randal, my son ? 
Oh where hae ye been, my handsome young man ? " 
" I hae been to the wild wood ; mother, make my 

bed soon. 
For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." 



THE CRUEL SISTER. 493 


"Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my 


The eldest she was vexed sair, 


sonf 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young 


And sore envied her sister fair ; 


man ? " 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


" I dined wi' my true-love ; mother, make my bed 




soon, 


The eldest said to the youngest ane, 


For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." 


Binnorie, Binnorie; 




" Will ye go and see our father's ships come in ? " 


" What gat ye to your dinner, Lord Randal, my 

son? 
What gat ye to yom- dinner, my handsome young 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie, 


She 's ta'en her by the lily hand. 


man ? " 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


" I gat eels boiled in broo ; mother, make my bed 


And led her down to the river strand ; 


soon. 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." 






The yomigest stude upon a stane, 


" What became of your bloodhounds. Lord Randal, 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


my son % 


The eldest came and pushed her in ; 


What became of your bloodhounds, my handsome 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


young man ? " 




" Oh they swelled and they died ; mother, make my 


She took her by the middle sraa', 


bed soon, 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." 


And dashed her bonny back to the Jaw ; 




By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


" Oh I fear ye are poisoned, Lord Randal, my son ! 




Oh I fear ye are poisoned, my handsome young 


" sister, sister, reach your hand. 


man ! " 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


" Oh yes ! I am poisoned ; mother, make my bed 


And ye shall be heir of half my land." — 


soon. 


By the bonny milldams of Binno7-ie. 


For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wald lie down." 




Anontmous. 


" sister, I'll not reach my hand. 




Binnorie, Binnorie ; 




And I'll be heir of all your land ; 


©Ije Cruel Sister. 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


There were two sisters sat in a bour, 


" Shame fa' the hand that I should take. 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


There came a knight to be their wooer ; 


It's twined me and my world's make." — 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


He courted the eldest with glove and ring, 


" sister, reach me but your glove. 


Binnorie, Binnorie; 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


But he lo'ed the youngest abune a' thing ; 


And sweet William shall be your love." — 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


By the honny milldams of Binnorie. 


He courted the eldest with broach and knife. 


" Sink on, nor hope for hand or glove ! 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


But he lo'ed the youngest abune his life ; 


And sweet William shall better be my love, 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 



494 P0JE3IS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


" Your cherry cheeks and your yellow hair, 


He brought it to her father's hall, 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


Garred me gang maiden evermair." 


And there was the court assembled all ; 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


Sometimes she sunk, and sometimes she swam. 


He laid his harp upon a stone. 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


Until she cam to the miller's dam ; 


And straight it began to play alone ; 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


" father, father, draw your dam ! 


" Oh yonder sits my father, the king, 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


There 's either a mermaid, or a milk-white swan." 


And yonder sits my mother, the queen ; " 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


The miller hasted and drew his dam. 


" And yonder stands my brother Hugh, 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


And there he found a drowned woman ; 


And by him my William, sweet and true." 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


By the bonm.y milldams of Binnorie. 


You could not see her yellow hair, 


But the last tune that the harp played then, 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


For gowd and pearls that were so rare ; 


Was — "Woe to my sister, false Helen!" 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


By tlie bonny milldams of Binnorie. 




Anontmotis. 


You could not see her middle sma', 




Binnorie, Binnorie ; 




Her gowden girdle was sae bra' ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


©brottrir, Cbroorb. 




" QuHY dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid, 


A famous harper passing by, 


Edward, Edward? 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid. 


The sweet pale face he chanced to spy ; 


And quhy sae sad gang zee oh ? " 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


" Oh I hae killed my hauke sae guid. 




Mither, mither : 


And when he looked that lady on. 


Oh I hae killed my hauk sae guid. 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


And I had nae mair bot hee oh." 


He sighed and made a heavy moan ; 




By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


" Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid. 




Edward, Edward : 


He made a harp of her breast-bone. 


Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid — 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


My deir son, I tell thee oh." 


Whose sounds would melt a heart of stone ; 


" Oh 1 hae killed my reid-roan steid, 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


Mither, mither : 




Oh I hae killed my reid-roan steid. 


The strings he framed of her yellow hair, 


That erst was sae fair and free oh." 


Binnorie, Binnorie — 




Whose notes made sad the listening ear ; 


" Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair. 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


Edward, Edward : 



THE TWA BROTHERS. 



495 



Zour steid was auld, and ze hae got mair — 

Sum other dule ze drie oh." 
" Oh 1 hae killed my fader deir, 

Mither, mither: 
Oh I hae killed my fader deir — 

Alas ! and wae is mee oh ! " 

" And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that, 
Edward, Edward ? 
And quhatten penance wol ze drie for that ? 

My deir son, now tell me oh." 
" He set my feit in zonder boat, 

Mither, mither: 
lie set my feit in zonder boat. 

And He fare ovir the sea oh." 

" And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour 
ha', 

Edward, Edward ? 
And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour 
ha', 

That were sae fair to see oh f " 
" He let thame stand tU they doun fa', 

Mither, mither : 
He let thame stand til they doun fa', 

For here nevir mair maun I beg oh." 

'' And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour 
wife, 

Edward, Edward? 
And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour 
wife, 

Quhan ze gang ovir the sea oh ? " 
" The warldis room — late them beg throw life, 

Mither, mither : 
The warldis room — late them beg throw life, 
For thame nevir mair wul I see oh." 

" And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir, 

Edward, Edward? 
And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir ? 

My deir son, now tell me oh." 
" The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir, 

Mither, mither : 
The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir — 
Sic counseils ze gave to me oh." 

Anontjiotis. 



There were twa brothers at the scule, 

And when they got awa', 
" It 's wiU ye play at the stane-chucking, 

Or wiU ye play at the ba' ? 
Or will ye gae up to yon hill head, 

And there we'U warsel a fa' ? " 

" I winna play at the stane-chucking, 

Nor will I play at the ba' ; 
But I'll gae up to yon bonnie green hUl, 

And there we'll warsel a fa' 1 " 

They warsled up, they warsled down, 

Till John fell to the ground ; 
A dirk fell out of William's pouch, 

And gave John a deadly wound. 

" Oh lift me upon your back — 

Take me to yon well fair ; 
And wash my bluidy wounds o'er and o'er. 

And they'll ne'er bleed nae mair." 

He 's lifted his brother upon his back, 

Ta'en him to yon well fair ; 
He 's washed his bluidy wounds o'er and o'er. 

But they bleed ay mair and mair. 

" Take ye afl my Holland sark, 

And rive it gair by gair. 
And row it in my bluidy wounds, 

And they'll ne'er bleed nae mair." 

He 's taken aff his Holland sark, 

And torn it gair by gair ; 
He 's row it in his bluidy wounds, 

But they bleed ay mair and mair, 

" Tak now aff my green cleiding. 

And row me saftly in ; 
And tak me up to yon kirk style, 

Whare the grass grows fair and green." 

He 's taken aff the green cleiding. 

And rowed him saftly in ; 
He 's laid him down by yon kirk style, 

Whare the grass grows fair and green. 



496 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


" What will ye say to your father dear, 




"When ye gae hame at e'en f " 


aije QEma Qlorbics. 


" I'll say ye 're lying at yon kirk style, 




Whare the grass grows fair and green." 


As I gaed doun by yon house-en' 




Twa corbies there were sittan their lane : 


" Oh no, oh no, my brother dear. 


The tane unto the tother sae. 


Oh you must not say so ; 


" Oh where shall we gae dine to-day?" 


But say that I am gane to a foreign land 




Where nae man does me know." 


" Oh down beside yon new-faun birk 


When he sat in his father's chair. 


There lies a new-slain knicht ; 


He grew baith pale and wan ; 


Nae livin kens that he lies there. 


" Oh what blude 's that upon your brow. 


But his horse, his hounds, and his lady fair. 


dear son, tell to me." 




" It is the blude o' my gude gray steed — 


" His horse is to the huntin gane. 


He wadna ride wi' me." 


His hounds to bring the wild deer hame ; 




His lady 's taen another mate ; 


" Oh thy steed's blude was ne'er sae red. 


Sae we may make our dinner swate. 


Nor e'er sae dear to me. 




Oh what blude 's this upon your cheek ? 


" Oh we'll sit on his bonnie briest-bane, 


dear son, tell to me." 


And we'll pyke out his bonnie grey een ; 


" It is the blude of my greyhound — 


Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair 


He wadna hunt for me." 


We'U theek our nest when it blaws bare. 


" Oh thy hound's blude was ne'er sae red, 




Nor e'er sae dear to me. 


" Mony a ane for him maks mane. 


Oh what blude 's this upon your hand? 


But nane sail ken where he is gane ; 


dear son, tell to me." 


Ower his banes, when they are bare. 


" It is the blude of my gay goss-hawk — 


The wind sail blaw for evermair ! " 


He wadna flee for me." 


Anonymous. 


" Oh thy hawk's blude was ne'er sae red. 




Nor e'er sae dear to me. 




Oh what blude 's this upon your dirk ? 


Bonnie ©corgc ClatnpbeU. 


Dear Willie, tell to me." 


Hie upon Hielands, 

And low upon Tay, 
Bonnie George Campbell 


" It is the blude of my ae brother. 
Oh dule and wae is me ! " 


" Oh what will ye say to your father ? 


Rade out on a day. 


Dear WUlie, tell to me." 


Saddled and bridled 


" I'll saddle my steed, and awa' I'll ride 


And gallant rade he ; 


To dwell in some far countrie." 


Hame cam his gude horse. 




But never cam he ! 


" Oh when will ye come hame again? 




Dear Willie, tell to me." 


Out cam his auld mither. 


"When sun and mune leap on yon hill — 


Greeting fu' sair ; 


And that will never be." 


And out cam his bonnie bride, 


She turned hersel' right round about. 


Rivin' her hair. 


And her heart burst into three ; 


Saddled and bridled 


" My ae best son is deid and gane. 


And booted rade he ; 


And my tother ane I'll ne'er see." 


Toom hame cam the saddle. 


ANONTMOnS. 


But never cam he ! 



1 



M'PHERSON'S FAREWELL. 497 


" My meadow lies green, 




And my corn is unshorn ; 


iH'Ipijerson's JarctocU. 


My barn is to big, 




And my baby 's unborn." 


" Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong. 


Saddled and bridled 


The wretch's destinie ! 


And booted rade he ; 


M'Pherson's time will not be long 


Toom hame cam the saddle, 


On yonder gallows-tree. " 


But never cam he ! 


Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 


Anonymous . 


Sae dauntingly gaed he ; 




He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round, 




Below the gallows-tree. 


tamtnx of x\)z Borlrcr tOiboro. 


" 0, what is death but parting breath ? 




On many a bloody plain 


My love he built me a bonny bower. 


I've dar'd his face, and in this place 


And clad it a' wi' lilye flour ; 


I scorn him yet again ! 


A brawer bower ye ne'er did see 




Than my true love he built for me. 


" Untie these bands from ofE my hands, 




And bring to me my sword ; 


There came a man, by middle day ; 


And there 's no a man in all Scotland, 


He spied his sport, and went away ; 


But I'll brave him at a word. 


And brought the king that very night, 




Who brake my bower, and slew my knight. 


" I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife ; 




I die by treacherie : 


He slew my knight, to me sae dear ; 


It burns njy heart I must depart, 


He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear ; 


And not avenged be. 


My servants all for life did flee, 




And left me in extremitie. 


" Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, 




And all beneath the sky ! 


I sewed his sheet, making my mane ; 


May coward shame distain his name, 


I watched the corpse, myself alane ; 


The wretch that dares not die ! " 


I watched his body, night and day ; 


. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly. 


No living creature came that way. 


Sae dauntingly gaed he ; 




He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round, 


I tuk his body on my back. 


Below the gallows-tree. 


And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat ; 


Robert Burns. 


I digged a grave, and laid him in. 




And happed him with the sod sae green. 






iFflii: f clcn. 


But think na ye my heart was sair. 




When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair ? 


I WISH I were where Helen lies ; 


Oh think na ye my heart was wae, 


Night and day on me she cries. 


When I turned about, away to gae ? 


Oh that I were where Helen lies, 




On fair Kirconnell lee ! 


Nae living man I'll love again. 




Since that my lovely knight is slain ; 


Curst be the heart that thought the thought. 


Wi' ae lock of his yellow hair 


And curst the hand that fired the shot, 


I'll chain my heart for evermair. 


When in my arms burd Helen dropt, 


Anonymous. 


And died to succour me ! 


1 S4 





498 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



Oh think na ye my heart was sair, 
When my love dropt down and spak nae mair 1 
There did she swoon wi' meikle care, 
On fair Kireonnell lee. 

As I went down the water side, 
None but my foe to be my guide — 
None but my foe to be my guide. 
On fair Kireonnell lee — 

I lighted down my sword to draw ; 
I hacked him in pieces sma' — 
I hacked him in pieces sma'. 
For her sake that died for me. 

Helen fair, beyond compare, 
I'll make a garland of thy hair. 
Shall bind my heart for evermair, 
Until the day I die ! 

Oh that 1 were where Helen lies I 
Night and day on me she cries ; 
Out of my bed she bids me rise — 
Says, " Haste and come to me ! " 

Helen fair ! Helen chaste ! 
If I were with thee I were blest. 
Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest, 

On fair Kireonnell lee. 

1 wish my grave were growing green, 
A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, 
And I in Helen's arms lying, 

On fair Kireonnell lee. 

I wish I were where Helen lies ! 
Night and day on me she cries ; 
And I am weary of the skies, 
For her sake that died for me. 

Anonymous. 



Song. 

" Mary, go and call the cattle |iome, 
And call the cattle home. 
And call the cattle home. 
Across the sands o' Dee ! " 
The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam. 
And all alone went she. 



The creeping tide came up along the sand, 
And o'er and o'er the sand, 
And round and round the sand. 
As far as eye could see ; 
The blinding mist came down and hid the land. 
And never home came she. 

" Oh is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — 
A tress o' golden hair, 
0' drowned maiden's hair — 
Above the nets at sea ? 
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair. 
Among the stakes on Dee." 

They rowed her in across the rolHng foam — 
The cruel, crawling foam. 
The cruel, hungry foam — 
To her grave beside the sea ; 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home 
Across the sands o' Dee. 

Chaeles Kingslet. 



SoljiTob aviis Hustum. 

And the first gray of moi'ning filled the east, 

And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream ; 

But all the Tartar camp along the stream 

Was hushed, and still the men were plunged in 

sleep. 
Sohrab alone, he slept not ; all night along 
He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed ; 
But when the gray dawn stole into his tent. 
He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword. 
And took his horseman's cloak, and left his tent. 
And went abroad into the cold wet fog. 
Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's tent. 
Through the black Tartar tents he passed, which 

stood. 
Clustering like bee-hives, on the low flat strand 
Of Oxus, where the summer floods o'erflow 
When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere : 
Through the black tents he passed, o'er that low 

strand. 
And to a hillock came, a little back 
From the stream's brink, the spot where first a 

boat. 
Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land. 
The men of former times had crowned the top 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 



499 



With a clay fort. But that was fallen ; and now 
The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa's tent, 
A dome of laths ; and o'er it felts were spread, 
And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood 
Upon the thick-piled carpets in the tent. 
And found the old man sleeping on his bed 
Of rugs and felts ; and near him lay his arms. 
And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step 
Was duUed ; for he slept light, an old man's sleep ; 
And he rose quickly on one arm, and said : 

" Who art thou ? for it is not yet clear dawn. 
Speak ! is there news, or any night alarm ? " 

But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said : 
" Thou know'st me, Peran-Wisa ; it is I. 
The sun is not yet risen, and the foe 
Sleep ; but I sleep not. All night long I lie 
Tossing and wakeful ; and I come to thee. 
For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek 
Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son, 
In Samarcand, before the army marched ; 
And I will tell thee what my heai-t desires. 
Thou knowest if, since from Ader-baijan first 
I came among the Tartars, and bore arms, 
I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown. 
At my boy's years, the courage of a man. 
This, too, thou know'st, that while I still .bear on 
The conquering Tartar ensigns through the world, 
And beat the Persians back on every field, 
I seek one man, one man, and one alone — 
Eustum, my father ; who, I hoped, should greet, 
Should one day greet upon some well-fought field 
His not unworthy, not inglorious son. 
So I long hoped, but him I never find. 
Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask. 
Let the two armies rest to-day ; but I 
WiU challenge forth the bravest Persian lords 
To meet me, man to man. If I prevail, 
Rustum will surely hear it ; if I fall — 
Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin. 
Dim is the rumor of a common fight. 
Where host meets host, and many names are sunk ; 
But of a single combat fame speaks clear." 

He spoke : and Peran-Wisa took the hand 
Of the young man in his, and sighed, and said : 

" Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine ! 
Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs. 
And share the battle's common chance with us 
Who love thee, but must press for ever first, 
In single fight incurring single risk, 



To find a father thou hast never seen °i 

That were far best, my son, to stay with us 

Unmurmuring — in our tents, while it is war ; 

And when 'tis truce, then in Afrasiab's towns. 

But, if this one desire indeed rules all,. 

To seek out Rustum — seek him not through fight ; 

Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms — 

Sohrab, carry an unwounded son ! 

But far hence seek him ; for he is not here. 

For now it is not as when I was young, 

When Eustum was in front of every fray ; 

But now he keeps apart, and sits at home, 

In Siestan, with Zal, his father old ; 

Whether that his own mighty strength at last 

Feels the abhorred approaches of old age ; 

Or in some quarrel with the Persian king. 

There go. — Thou wilt not f yet my heart forebodes 

Danger or death awaits thee on this field. 

Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lost 

To us — fain therefore send thee hence, in peace 

To seek thy father, not seek single fights 

In vain. But who can keep the lion's cub 

From ravening? and who govern Eustum's son? 

Go ! I will grant thee what thy heart desires." 

So said he, and dropped Sohi-ab's hand, and left 
His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay ; 
And o'er his chilly limbs his woolen coat 
He passed, and tied his sandals on his feet. 
And threw a white cloak round him ; and he took 
In his right hand a ruler's staff, no sword ; 
And on his head he placed his sheep-skin cap — 
Black, glossy, curled, the fleece of Kara-Kul ; 
And raised the curtain of his tent, and called 
His herald to his side, and went abroad. 

The sun, by this, had risen, and cleared the fog 
From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands ; 
And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed 
Into the open plain : so Haman bade — 
Haman, who, next to Peran-Wisa, ruled 
The host, and still was in his lusty prime. 
From their black tents, long files of horse, they 

streamed : 
As when, some gray November mom, the files. 
In marching order spread, of long-necked cranes. 
Stream over Casbin, and the southern slopes 
Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries, 
Or some frore Caspian reed-bed — southward bound 
For the warm Persian sea-board : so they streamed — 
The Tartars of the Oxus, the king's guard, 



500 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



First, with black sheep-skin caps, and with long 

spears ; 
Large men, large steeds ; who from Bokhara come 
And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares. 
Next the more temperate Toorkmuns of the south, 
The Tiikas, and the lances of Salore, 
And those from Attruck and the Caspian sands — 
Light men, and on light steeds, who only drink 
The acrid milk of camels, and their wells. 
And then a swarm of wandering horse, who came 
Prom far, and a more doubtful service owned — 
The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks 
Of the Jaxartes — men with scanty beards 
And close-set skull-caps ; and those wilder hordes 
Who roam o'er Kipchak and the northern waste, 
Kalmuks and unkemped Kuzzaks, tribes who stray 
Nearest the pole ; and wandering Kirghizes, 
Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere. 
These all filed out from camp into the plain. 
And on the other side the Persians formed : 
First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they seemed. 
The Ilyats of Khorassan ; and behind. 
The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot, 
Marshalled battalions bright in burnished steel. 
But Peran-Wisa with his herald came 
Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front. 
And with his staff kept back the foremost ranks. 
And when Ferood, who led the Persians, saw 
That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back, 
He took his spear, and to the front he came 
And checked his ranks, and fixed them where they 

stood. 
And the old Tartar came upon the sand 
Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said : — 

" Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, hear ! 
Let there be truce between the hosts to-day. 
But choose a champion fi'om the Persian lords 
To fight our champion, Sohrab, man to man." 

As, in the country, on a morn in June, 
When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, 
A shiver runs through the deep corn for joy — 
So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said, 
A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran. 
Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whoih they loved. 

But as a troop of pedlars, from Cabool, 
Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, 
That vast sky-neighboring mountain of milk snow. 
Winding so high that, as they mount, they pass 
Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow. 



Choked by the air ; and scarce can they themselves 
Slake their parched throats with sugared mulber- 
ries — 
In single file they move, and stop their breath. 
For fear they should dislodge the o'erhanging 

snows — 
So the pale Persians held their breath with fear. 

And to Ferood his brother chiefs came up 
To counsel. Gudurz and Zoarrah came ; 
And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host 
Second, and was the uncle of the king ; 
These came and counselled; and then Gudurz 
said : — 

" Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge up, 
Yet champion have we none to match this youth ; 
He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart. 
But Rustum came last night ; aloof he sits. 
And sullen, and has pitched his tents apart : 
Him will I seek, and carry to his ear 
The Tartar challenge, and this young man's name. 
Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight. 
Stand forth the while, and take their challenge 
up." 

So spake he ; and Ferood stood forth and said : — 
" Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said. 
Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man." 
He spoke ; and Peran-Wisa turned, and strode 
Back through the opening squadrons to his tent. 
But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran, 
And crossed the camp which lay behind, and 

reached. 
Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum's tents. 
Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay, 
Just pitched. The high pavilion in the midst 
Was Rustam's ; and his men lay camped around. 
And Gudurz entered Rustum's tent, and found 
Rustum. His morning meal was done ; but still 
The table stood beside him, charged with food — 
A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread. 
And dark-green melons. And there Rustum sate 
Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist. 
And played with it ; but Gudurz came and stood 
Before him ; and he looked and saw him stand ; 
And with a cry sprang up, and dropped the bird. 
And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and said: — 

" Welcome ! these eyes could see no better sight. 
What news? But sit down first, and eat and 
drink." 

But Gudurz stood in the tent-door, and said : — 



SOHBAB AND RUSTUM. 



501 



" Not now, A time will come to eat and drink, 
But not to-day : to-day has other needs. 
The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze ; 
For from the Tartars is a challenge brought 
To pick a champion from the Persian lords 
To fight their champion — and thou know'st his 

name — 
Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid. 
Rustum, like thy might is this young man's ! 
He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart. 
And he is young, and Iran's chiefs are old, 
Or else too weak ; and all eyes turn to thee. 
Come down and help us, Rustum, or we lose." 

He spoke. But Rustum answered with a smile : — 

" Go to ! if Iran's chiefs are old, then 1 
Am older. If the young are weak, the king 
Errs strangely ; for the king, for Kai-Khosroo, 
Himself is young, and honors younger men. 
And lets the aged moulder to their graves. 
Rustum he loves no more, but loves the young — 
The young may rise at Sohrab's vaunts, not I. 
For what care I, though all speak Sohrab's fame f 
For would that I myself had such a son, 
And not that one slight helpless girl I have — 
A son so famed, so brave, to send to war, 
And 1 to tarry with the snow-haired Zal, 
My father, whom the robber Afghans vex. 
And clip his borders short, and drive his herds ; 
And he has none to guard his weak old age. 
There would I go, and hang my armor up. 
And with my great name fence that weak old man, 
And spend the goodly treasures I have got. 
And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab's fame. 
And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings. 
And with these slaughterous hands draw sword no 
more." 

He spoke, and smiled; and Gudurz made re- 
ply:— 

" What then, Rustum, will men say to this, 
Wlien Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks 
Thee most of all ; and thou, whom most he seeks, 
Ilidest thy face ? Take heed, lest men should say, 
Like some old miser Rustum hoards his fame, 
And shuns to peril it with younger men." 

And. greatly moved, then Rustum made re- 
ply:— 

" Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such words ? 
Thou knowest better words than this to say. 
"What is one more, one less, obscure or famed. 



Valiant or craven, young or old, to me ? 

Are not they mortal f Am not I myself ? 

But who for men of nought would do great deeds ? 

Come, thou shalt see how Rustum hoards his fame. 

But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms. 

Let not men say of Rustum, he was matched 

In single fight with any mortal man." 

He spoke, and frowned ; and Gudurz turned and 
ran 
Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy — 
Pear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum came. 
But Rustum strode to his tent-door, and called 
His followers in, and bade them bring his arms. 
And clad himself in steel. The arms he chose 
Were plain, and on his shield was no device ; 
Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold ; 
And from the fluted spine, atop, a plume 
Of horse-hair waved, a scarlet horse-hair plume. 
So armed, he issued forth ; and Ruksh, his horse. 
Followed him, like a faithful hound, at heel — 
Ruksh, whose renown was noised through all the 

earth — 
The horse whom Rustum on a foray once 
Did in Bokhara by the river find, 
A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home 
And reared him ; a bright bay, with lofty crest, 
Dight with a saddle-cloth of bi'oidered green 
Crusted with gold ; and on the ground were worked 
All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters know. 
So followed, Rustum left his tents, and crossed 
The camp, and to the Persian host appeared. 
And all the Persians knew him, and with shouts 
Hailed : but the Tartars knew not who he was. 
And dear as the wet diver to the eyes 
Of his pale wife, who waits and weeps on shore. 
By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf — 
Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night, 
Having made up his tale of precious pearls, 
Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands — 
So dear to the pale Persians Rustum came. 

And Rustum to the Persian front advanced : 
And Sohrab armed in Haman's tent, and came. 
And as a-fleld the reapers cut a swathe 
Down through the middle of a rich man's corn. 
And, on each side are squares of standing corn. 
And in the midst a stubble, short and bare : 
So on each side were squares of men, with spears 
Bristling ; and in the midst the open sand. 
And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast 



502 



P0E3IS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and saw 
Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he came. 

As some rich woman, on a winter's morn, 
Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudge 
Who with numb-blackened fingers makes her 

fire — 
At cock-crow, on a starlit winter's morn, 
When the frost flowers the whitened window- 
panes — 
And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughts 
Of that poor drudge may be : so Rustum eyed 
The unknown adventurous youth, who from afar 
Came seeking Rustum, and defying foi'th 
All the most valiant chiefs. Long he perused 
His spirited air, and wondered who he was. 
For very young he seemed, tenderly reared ; 
Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and 

straight. 
Which in a queen's secluded garden throws 
Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf. 
By midnight, to a bubbling fountain's sound — 
So slender Sohrab seemed, so softly reared. 
And a deep pity entered Rustum's soul 
As he beheld him coming ; and he stood, 
And beckoned to him with his hand, and said : — 

" Oh, thou young man, the air of heaven is soft. 
And warm, and pleasant ; but the grave is cold. 
Heaven's air is better than the cold dead grave. 
Behold me : I am vast, and clad in iron. 
And tried ; and I have stood on many a field 
Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe ; 
Never was that field lost, or that foe saved. 
Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death ? 
Be governed : quit the Tartar host, and come 
To Iran, and be as my son to me. 
And fight beneath my banner till I die. 
There are no youths in Iran brave as thou." 

So he spake mildly. Sohrab heard his voice. 
The mighty voice of Rustum ; and he saw 
His giant figure planted on the sand — 
Sole, like some single tower, which a chief 
Has bxiilded on the waste in former years 
Against the robbers ; and he saw that head. 
Streaked with its first gray hairs. Hope filled his 

soul; 
And he ran forward and embraced his knees. 
And clasped his hand within his own and said : — 

" Oh, by thy father's head ! by thine own soul ! 
Art thou not Rustum ? Speak ! art thou not he ? " 



But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth. 
And turned away, and spoke to his own soul : — 

" Ah me, I muse what this young fox may mean. 
False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys. 
For if I now confess this thing he asks, 
And hide it not, but say — Rustum is here — 
He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes, 
But he will find some pretext not to fight. 
And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts — 
A belt or sword perhaps — and go his way. 
And on a feast day, in Afrasiab's hall, 
In Samarcand, he will arise and cry — 
' I challenged once, when the two armies camped 
Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords 
To cope with me in single fight ; but they 
Shrank ; only Rustum dared. Then he and I 
Changed gifts, and went on equal terms away.' 
So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud. 
Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed through me." 
And then he turned, and sternly spake aloud : — 
" Rise ! Wherefore dost thou vainly question 
thus 
Of Rustum"? I am here, whom thou hast called 
By challenge forth. Make good thy vaunt, or yield. 
Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight ? 
Rash boy, men look on Rustum's face and flee. 
For well I know, that did great Rustum stand 
Before thy face this day, and were revealed. 
There would be then no talk of fighting more. 
But being what I am, I tell thee this — 
Do thou record it in thine inmost soul — 
Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt, and yield ; 
Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till winds 
Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer floods, 
Oxus in summer, wash them all away." 
He spoke ; and Sohrab answered, on his feet : — 
" Art thou so fierce 1 Thou wilt not fright me so. 
I am no girl, to be made pale by words. 
Yet this thou hast said well : did Rustum stand 
Here on this field, there were no fighting then. 
But Rustum is far hence, and we stand here. 
Begin ! Thou art more vast, more dread, than I ; 
And thou art proved, I know, and I am young — 
But yet success sways with the breath of heaven. 
And though thou thinkest that thou knowest sure 
Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know. 
For we are all, like swimmers in the sea. 
Poised on the top of a huge wave of Fate, 
Which hangs imcertain to which side to fall ; 



I 



SOHEAB AND RUSTUM. 



503 



And whether it will heave us up to land, 

Or whether it will roll us out to sea — 

Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death — 

We know not, and no search will make us know ; 

Only the event will teach us in its hour." 

He spake ; and Rustum answered not, but hurled 
His spear. Down from the shoulder, down it 

came — 
As on some partridge in the corn, a hawk. 
That long has towered in the airy clouds. 
Drops like a plummet. Sohrab saw it come. 
And sprang aside, quick as a flash. The spear 
Hissed, and went quivering down into the sand. 
Which it sent flying wide. Then Sohrab threw 
In turn, and full struck Eustum's shield. Sharp 

rang 
The iron plates, rang sharp, but turned the spear. 
And Rustum seized his club, which none but he 
Could wield — an unlapped trunk it was, and huge, 
Still rough ; like those which men, in treeless 

plains. 
To build them boats, fish from the flooded rivers, 
Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up 
By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time 
Has made in Himalayan forests wrack. 
And strewn the channels with torn boughs — so 

huge 
The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck 
One stroke ; but again Sohrab sprang aside. 
Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came 
Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum's 

hand. 
And Rustum followed his own blow, and fell 
To his knees, and with his fingers clutched the 

sand. 
And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword, 
And pierced the mighty Rustum while he lay 
Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand ; 
But he looked on, and smiled, nor bared his sword ; 
But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said : — 
" Thou strik'st too hard ; that club of thine will 

float 
Upon the summer floods, and not my bones. 
But rise, and be not wroth ; not wroth am I. 
No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul. 
Thou sayest thou art not Rustum ; be it so. 
Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul ? 
Boy as I am, I have seen battles too ; 
Have waded foremost in their bloody waves, 



And heard their hollow roar of dying men ; 
But never was my heart thus touched before. 
Are they from heaven, these softenings of the heart ? 
thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven ! 
Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears. 
And make a truce, and sit upon this sand. 
And pledge each other in red wine, like friends ; 
And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's deeds. 
There are enough foes in the Persian host 
Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang ; 
Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou 
May'st fight : fight them, when they confront thy 

spear. 
But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and me ! " 
He ceased. But while he spake Rustum had 

risen. 
And stood erect, trembling with rage. His club 
He left to lie, but had regained his spear, 
Whose fiery point now in his mailed right hand 
Blazed bright and baleful' — like that autumn star. 
The baleful sign of fevers. Dust had soiled 
His stately crest, and dimmed his glittering arms. 
His breast heaved ; his lips foamed ; and twice his 

voice 
Was choked with rage. At last these words broke 

way : — 
"Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy 

hands ! 
Curled minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words ! 
Fight ! Let me hear thy hateful voice no more ! 
Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now 
With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to 

dance ; 
But on the Oxus sands, and in the dance 
Of battle, and with me, who make no play 
Of war. I fight it out, and hand to hand. 
Speak not to me of -truce, and pledge, and wine ! 
Remember all thy valor ; try thy feints 
And cunning ; all the pity I had is gone ; 
Because thou hast shamed me before both the 

hosts. 
With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's 

wiles." 
He spoke ; and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, 
And he too drew his sword. At once they rushed 
Together ; as two eagles on one prey 
Come rushing down together from the clouds. 
One from the east, one from the west. Their 

shields 



504 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



Dashed with a clang together ; and a din 

Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters 

Make often in the forest's heart at morn, 

Of hewing axes, crashing trees ; such blows 

Rustum and Sohrab on each other hailed. 

And you would say that sun and stars took part 

In that unnatural conflict ; for a cloud 

Grew suddenly in heaven, and darkened the sun 

Over the fighters' heads ; and a wind rose 

Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, 

And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair. 

In gloom they twain were wrapped, and they 

alone ; 
For both the on-looking hosts on either hand 
Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, 
And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. 
But in the gloom they fouglit, with bloodshot eyes 
And laboring breath. First Rustum struck the 

shield 
Which Sohrab held stiff out. The steel-spiked spear 
Rent the tough plates, but failed to reach the skin : 
And Rustum plucked it back with angry groan. 
Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustam's helm 
Nor clove its steel quite through ; but all the crest 
He shore away ; and that proud horse-hair plume. 
Never till now defiled, sunk to the dust ; 
And Rustum bowed his head. But then the gloom 
Grew blacker ; thunder rumbled in the air. 
And lightnings rent the cloud ; and Ruksh, the 

horse, 
Who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful cry. 
No horse's cry was that, most like the roar 
Of some pained desert lion, who all day 
Has trailed the hunter's javelin in his side, 
And comes at night to die upon the sand. 
The two hosts heard the cry, and quaked for fear ; 
And Oxus curdled as it crossed? his stream. 
But Sohrab heard, and quailed not — but rushed 

on, 
And struck again ; and again Rustum bowed 
His head. But this time all the blade, like glass, 
Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm, 
And in his hand the hilt remained alone. 
Then Rustum raised his head ; his dreadful eyes 
Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear. 
And shouted " Rustum ! " Sohrab heard that shout. 
And shrank amazed ; back he recoiled one step. 
And scanned with blinking eyes the advancing 

form ; 



And then he stood bewildered ; and he dropped 
His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. 
He reeled, and staggering back, sunk to the ground. 
And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, 
And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all 
The cloud ; and the two armies saw the pair — 
Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, 
And Sohrab wounded, on the bloody sand. 
Then with a bitter smile, Rustum began : — 
" Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill 
A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, 
And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent ; 
Or else that the great Rustum would come down 
Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move 
His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. 
And then all the Tartar host would praise 
Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, 
To glad thy father in his weak old age. 
Fool ! thou art slain, and by an unknown man ! 
Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be. 
Than to thy friends, and to thy father old." 
And with a fearless mien Sohrab replied : — 
" Unknown thou art ; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain. 
Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man ! 
No ! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart. 
For were I matched with ten such men as thou. 
And I were he who till to-day I was. 
They should be lying here, I standing there. 
But that beloved name unnerved my arm — 
That name, and something, 1 confess, in thee. 
Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield 
Fall ; and thy spear transfixed an unarmed foe. 
And now thou boastest, and insult'st my fate. 
But hear thou this, fierce man — tremble to hear ! 
The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death ! 
My father, whom I seek through all the world. 
He shall avenge my death, and punish thee !" 

As when some hunter in the spring hath found 
A breeding eagle sitting on her nest, 
Upon the craggy isle of a hill lake, 
And pierced her with an arrow as she rose. 
And followed her to find her where she fell 
Far off ; — anon her mate comes winging back 
From hunting, and a great way off descries 
His huddling young left sole ; at that, he checks 
His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps 
Circles above his eyry, with loud screams 
Chiding his mate back to her nest ; but she 
Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, 



SOHBAB AND RUSTUM. 



505 



la some far stony gorge out of his ken — 

A heap of fluttering feathers. Never more 

Shall the lake glass her, flying over it ; 

Never the black and dripping precipices 

Echo her stormy scream, as she sails by. 

As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss — 

So Rustum knew not his own loss ; but stood 

Over his dying son, and knew him not. 

But with a cold, incredulous voice, he said : — 
"What prate is this of fathers and revenge? 
The mighty Rustum never had a son." 

And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied : — 
" Ah yes, he had ! and that lost son am I. 
Surely the news will one day reach his ear — 
Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long. 
Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here ; 
And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap 
To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee — 
Fierce man, bethink thee — for an only son ! 
What will that grief, what will that vengeance be ! 
Oh, could 1 live till I that grief had seen ! 
Yet him I pity not so much, but her. 
My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells 
With that old king, her father, who grows gray 
With age, and rules over the valiant Koords. 
Her most I pity, who no more will see 
Sohrab returning from the Tai'tar camp, 
With spoils and honor, when the war is done, 
But a dark rumor will be bruited up. 
From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear ; 
And then will that defenceless woman learn 
That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more ; 
But that in battle with a nameless foe. 
By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain." 

He spoke ; and as he ceased he wept aloud, 
Thinking of her he left, and his own death. 
He spoke ; but Rustum listened, plunged in thought. 
Nor did he yet believe it was his son 
Who spoke, although he called back names he 

knew ; 
For he had had sure tidings that the babe, 
Which was in Ader-baijan born to him. 
Had been a puny girl, no boy at all : 
So that sad mother sent him word, for fear 
Rustum should take the boy, to train in arms ; 
And so he deemed that either Sohrab took. 
By a false boast, the style of Rustum's son ; 
Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. 
So deemed he ; yet he listened, plunged in thought ; 



And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide 
Of the bright rocking ocean sets to shore 
At the full moon. Tears gathered in his eyes ; 
For he remembered his own early youth. 
And all its bounding rapture. As, at dawn. 
The shepherd from his mountain lodge descries 
A far bright city, smitten by the sun. 
Through many rolling clouds — so Rustum saw 
His youth ; saw Sohrab's mother, in her bloom ; 
And that old king, her father, who loved well 
His wandering guest, and gave him his fair child 
With joy ; and all the pleasant life they led, 
They three, in that long-distant summer-time — 
The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt 
And hound, and morn on those delightful hills 
In Ader-baijan. And he saw that youth, 
Of age and looks to be his own dear son, 
Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand. 
Like some rich hyacinth, which by the scythe 
Of an unskilful gardener has been cut 
Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed, 
And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom. 
On the mown, dying grass : so Sohrab lay. 
Lovely in death, upon the common sand. 
And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said : 

" Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son 
Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have 

loved ! 
Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men 
Have told thee false — thou art not Rustum's son. 
For Rustum had no son. One child he had — 
But one — a girl ; who with her mother now 
Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us ; 
Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war." 

But Sohrab answered him in wrath ; for now 
The anguish of the deep-fixed spear grew fierce, 
And he desired to draw forth the steel, 
And let the blood flow free, and so to die. 
But first he would convince his stubborn foe ; 
And, rising sternly on one arm, he said : 

" Man, who art thou, who dost deny my words ? 
Truth sits upon the lips of dying men ; 
And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine. 
1 tell thee, pricked upon this arm I bear 
That seal which Rustum to my mother gave. 
That she might prick it on the babe she bore." 

He spoke : and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks ; 
And his knees tottered ; and he smote his hand 
Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand. 



506 



P0E3IS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



That the hard iron corselet clanked aloud ; 
And to his heart he pressed the other hand, 
And in a hollow voice he spake, and said : 

" Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie. 
If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's son." 

Then, with weak, hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed 
His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, 
And showed a sign in faint vermilion points 
Pricked. As a cunning workman, in Pekin, 
Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase. 
An emperor's gift ; at early morn he paints. 
And all day long ; and, when night comes, the lamp 
Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands : 
So delicately pricked the sign appeared 
On Sohrab's arm — the sign of Rustum's seal. 
It was that grifSn, which of old reared Zal, 
Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, 
A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks. 
Him that kind creature found and reared and loved. 
Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. 
And Sohrab bared that figure on his arm. 
And himself scanned it long with mournful eyes, 
And then he touched it with his hand and said : 

" How sayest thou ? Is that sign the proper sign 
Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's ? " 

He spoke : but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and 

stood 

Speechless; and then he uttered one sharp cry — 

"0, boy — thy father!" — and his voice choked 

there, 

And then a dark cloud passed before his eyes. 

And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. 

But Sohrab crawled to where he lay, and cast 

His arms about his neck, and kissed his lips. 

And with fond, faltering fingers stroked his cheeks. 

Trying to call him back to life. And life 

Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes. 

And they stood wide with horror ; and he seized 

In both his hands the dust which lay around, 

And threw it on his head, and smirched his hair — 

His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms ; 

And strong, convulsive groanings shook his breast, 

And his sobs choked him ; and he clutched his 

sword 

> 

To draw it, and for ever let life out. 

But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands ; 

And with a soothing voice he spoke, and said : 

" Father, forbear ! for I but meet to-day 
The doom that at my birth was written down 



In heaven, and thou art heaven's unconscious hand. 
Surely my heart cried out that it was thou, 
When first I saw thee ; and thy heart spoke too, 
I know it. But fate trod those promptings down 
Under its iron heel ; fate, fate engaged 
The strife, and hurled me on my father's spear. 
B^^t let us speak no more of this — I find 
My father ; let me feel that I have found. 
Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take 
My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks. 
And wash them with thy tears, and say, ' My son ! ' 
Quick ! quick ! for numbered are my sands of hfe. 
And swift ; for like the lightning to this field 
I came, and like the wind I go away — 
Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind. 
But it was writ in heaven that this should be." 

So said he : and his voice released the heart 
Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth ; he cast 
His arms round his son's neck, and wept aloud, 
And kissed him. And awe fell on both the hosts 
When they saw Rustum's grief ; and Ruksh, the 

horse. 
With his head bowing to the ground, and mane 
Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe, 
First to the one then to the other moved 
His head, as if inquiring what their grief 
Might mean; and from his dark, compassionate 

eyes, 
The big, warm tears rolled down, and caked the 

sand. 
But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said : 

" Ruksh, now thou grievest ; but, Ruksh, thy 
feet 
Should then have rotted on thy nimble Joints, 
When first they bore thy master to this field." 

But Sohrab looked upon the horse, and said : 

" Is this then Ruksh f How often, in past days. 
My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed — 
My terrible father's terrible horse ! and said 
That I should one day find thy lord and thee. 
Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane. 
Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I ; 
For thou hast gone where I shall never go. 
And snufEed the breezes of my father's home, 
And thou hast trod the sands of Se'istan, 
And seen the river of Ilelmund, and tlie lake 
Of Zirrah ; and the aged Zal himself 
Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food — 
Corn in a golden platter soaked with wine — 



SOERAB AJSD RUSTU3L 



507 



And said — ' Ruksh ! bear Rustum well ! ' But I 
Have never known my grandsire's furrowed face, 
Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan, 
Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream ; 
But lodged among my father's foes, and seen 
Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, 
Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, 
And the black Toorkmun tents ; and only drunk 
The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, 
Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep. 
The northern Sir ; and this great Osus stream — 
The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die." 

And, with a heavy groan, Rustum replied : 
" Oh that its waves were iiowing over me ! 
Oh that I saw its grains of yellow silt 
Roll tumbling in the current o'er my head ! " 
And, with a grave, mild voice, Sohrab replied : 
" Desire not that, my father ! Thou must live ; 
For some are born to do great deeds, and live ; 
As some are born to be obscured, and die. 
Do thou the deeds I die too young to do. 
And reap a second glory in thine age ; 
Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. 
But come ! thou seest this great host of men 
Which follow me ; I pray thee, slay not these ! 
Let me entreat for them — what have they done? 
They followed me, my hope, my fame, m/ star. 
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. 
But me thou must bear hence, not send with them, 
But carry me with thee to Seistan, 
And place me on a bed, and mourn for me — 
Thou, and the snow-haired Zal, and all thy friends. 
And thou must lay me in that lovely earth. 
And heap a stately mound above my bones, 
And plant a far-seen pillar over all ; 
That so the passing horseman on the waste 
May see my tomb a great way off, and say : 
Sohrab, tlie mighty Rustum's son, lies there. 
Whom his great father did in ignorance Idll — 
And I be not forgotten in my grave." 
And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied : 
" Fear not ! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son. 
So shall it be ; for I will burn my tents. 
And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me, 
And carry thee away to Seistan, 
And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, 
With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends. 
And I will lay thee in that lovely earth, 
And heap a stately mound above thy bones. 



And plant a far-seen pillar over all ; 
And men shall not forget thee in thy grave ; 
And I will spare thy host — yea, let them go — 
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. 
What should I do with slaying any more ? 
For would that all whom 1 have ever slain 
Might be once more alive — my bitterest foes, 
And they who were called champions in their 

time, 
And through whose death I won that fame I 

have — 
And I were nothing but a common man, 
A poor, mean soldier, and without renown ; 
So thou mightest live too, my son, my son ! 
Or rather, would that I, even I myself. 
Might now be lying on this bloody sand. 
Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine. 
Not thou of mine ; and I might die, not thou ; 
And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan ; 
And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine ; 
x\nd say — son, I weep thee not too sore. 
For ivillinghj, I know, thou met'st thine end / — 
But now in blood and battles was my youth, 
And full of blood and battles is my age ; 
And I shall never end this life of blood." 

Then at the point of death, Sohrab replied : — 
" A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man ! 
But thou shalt yet have peace ; only not now, 
Not yet. But thou shalt have it on that day 
When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship. 
Thou and the other peers of Kai-Khosroo, 
Returning home over the salt, blue sea, 
From laying thy dear master in his grave." 

And Rustum gazed on Sohrab's face, and 
said : — 
" Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea ! 
Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure." 

He spoke : and Sohrab smiled on him, and took 
The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased 
His wound's imperious anguish. But the blood 
Came welling from the open gash, and life 
Flowed with the stream ; all down his cold white 

side 
The crimson torrent ran, dim now, and soiled — 
Like the soiled tissue of white violets 
Left, freshly gathered, on their native bank 
By romping children, whom their nurses call 
From the hot fields at noon. His head drooped 
low; 



508 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



His limbs grew slack ; motionless, white, he lay^ 
White, with eyes closed ; only when heavy gasps, 
Deep, heavy gasps, quivering through all his frame, 
Convulsed him back to life, he opened them, 
And fixed them feebly on his father's face. 
Till now all strength was ebbed, and from his 

limbs 
Unwillingly the spirit fled away, 
Kegretting the warm mansion which it left. 
And youth and bloom, and this delightful world. 

So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead. 
And the great Rustum drew his horseman's cloak 
Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son. 
As those black granite piUars, once high-reared 
By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear 
His house, now, mid their broken flights of steps. 
Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain-side — 
So in the sand lay Rustum by his son. 

And night came down over the solemn waste. 
And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair. 
And darkened all ; and a cold fog, with night, 
Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose. 
As of a great assembly loosed, and fires 
Began to twinkle through the fog ; for now 
Both armies moved to camp, and took their meal ; 
The Persians took it on the open sands 
Southward ; the Tartars by the river marge. 
And Rustum and his son were left alone. 

But the majestic river floated on. 
Out of the mist and hum of that low land, 
Into the frosty starlight, and there moved. 
Rejoicing, through the hushed Chorasmian waste. 
Under the solitary moon. He flowed 
Right for the polar star, past Orgunje, 
Brimming, and bright, and large. Then sands 

begin 
To hem his watery march, and dam his streams, 
And split his currents — that for many a league 
The shorn and parcelled Oxus strains along 
Through beds of sand, and matted, rushy isles — 
Oxus forgetting the bright speed he had 
In his high mountain cradle in Pamere — 
A foiled, circuitous wanderer. Till at last 
The longed-for dash of waves is heard, and wide 
His luminous home of waters opens, bright 
And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed 

stars 
Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. 

Matthew Arnold. 



Wail for Daedalus, all that is fairest ! 

AU that is tuneful in air or wave ! 
Shapes whose beauty is truest and rarest. 

Haunt with your lamps and spells his grave ! 

Statues, bend your heads in sorrow, 

Ye that glance 'mid ruins old. 
That know not a past, nor expect a morrow, 

On many a moonlight Grecian wold ! 

By sculptured cave and speaking river. 
Thee, Dsedalus, oft the nymphs recall ; 

The leaves with a sound of winter quiver. 
Murmur thy name, and withering fall. 

Yet are thy visions in soul the grandest 
Of all that crowd on the tear-dimmed eye. 

Though, Dfedalus, thou no more commandest 
New stars to that ever-widening sky. 

Ever thy phantoms arise before us. 
Our loftier brothers, but one in blood ; 

By bed and table they lord it o'er us. 

With looks of beauty, and words of good. 

Calmly they show us mankind victorious 
O'er all that is aimless, blind, and base ; 

Their presence has made our nature glorious, 
Unveiling our night's illumined face. 

Thy toil has won them a god-like quiet ; 

Thou hast wrought their path to a lovely 
sphere ; 
Their eyes to peace rebuke our riot, 

And shape us a home of refuge here. 

For Daedalus breathed in them his spirit ; 

In them their sire his beauty sees ; 
We too, a younger brood, inherit 

The gifts and blessing bestowed on these. 

But ah ! their wise and graceful seeming. 
Recalls the more that the sage is gone ; 

Weeping we wake from deceitful dreaming. 
And find our voiceless chamber lone. 

Dfedalus, thou from the twilight fleest. 
Which thou with vision hast made so bright, 

And when no more those shapes thou seest. 
Wanting thine eye they lose their light. 



IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON. 



509 



Even in the noblest of man's creations, 
Those fresh worlds round this old of ours, 

When the seer is gone the orphaned nations 
See but the tombs of perished powers. 

Wail for Daedalus, earth and ocean ! 

Stars and sun, lament for him ! 
Ages quake, in strange commotion ! 

All ye realms of life, be dim ! 

Wail for Dasdalus, awful voices ! 

From earth's deep centre mankind appall ! 
Seldom ye sound, and then Death rejoices, 

For he knows that then the mightiest fall. 
John Steeling. 



J|]|)igcncia onb !l.gamemnon. 

Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom 
At Aulis, and when aU beside the king 
Had gone away, took his right hand, and said : 
" father ! I am young and very happy. 
I do not think the pious Calchas heard 
Distinctly what the goddess spake; — old age 
Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew 
My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood. 
While I was resting on her knee both arms, 
And hitting it to make her mind my words, 
And looking in her face, and she in mine, 
Might not he, also, hear one word amiss. 
Spoken from so far ofE, even from Olympus % " 
The father placed his cheek upon her head. 
And tears dropt down it ; but the king of men 
Replied not. Then the maiden spake once more. 
" father ! sayest thou nothing % Hearest thou not 
Me, whom thou ever hast, untU this hour, 
Listened to fondly, and awakened me 
To hear my voice amid the voice of birds, 
When it was inarticulate as theirs. 
And the down deadened it within the nest ?" 
He moved her gently from him, silent still ; 
And this, and this alone, brought tears from her. 
Although she saw fate nearer. Then with sighs : 
" I thought to have laid down my hair before 
Benignant Artemis, and not dimmed 
Her polished altar with my virgin blood ; 
I thought to have selected the white flowers 
To please the nymphs, and to have asked of each 



By name, and with no sorrowful regret. 
Whether, gince both my parents willed the change, 
I might at Hymen's feet bend my dipt brow ; 
And (after these who mind us girls the most) 
Adore our own Athene, that she would 
Regard me mildly with her azure eyes — 
But, father, to see you no more, and see 
Your love, father ! go ere I am gone ! " 
Gently he moved her off, and drew her back, 
Bending his lofty head far over hers. 
And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst. 
He turned away — not far, but silent still. 
She now first shuddered ; for in him, so nigh. 
So long a sUence seemed the approach of death. 
And like it. Once again she raised her voice : 
" father ! if the ships are now detained, 
And all your vows move not the gods above. 
When the knife strikes me there will be one prayer 
The less to them ; and purer can there be 
Any, or more fervent, than the daughter's prayer 
For her dear father's safety and success % " 
A groan that shook him shook not his resolve. 
An aged man now entered, and without 
One word, stepped slowly on, and took the wrist 
Of the pale maiden. She looked up, and saw 
The fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes. 
Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried : 
" father ! grieve no more : the ships can sail." 
Waltek Savage Landor. 



%\\t Cementation for Qlelin. 

At tlie gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are 

barred. 
At twilight, at the Vega-gate, there is a trampling 

heard ; 
There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading 

slow, 
And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound 

of woe. 
What tower is fallen % what star is set ? what chief 

comes these bewailing % 
" A tower is fallen, a star is set ! Alas ! alas for 

Celin ! " 

Three times they knock — three times they cry — 

and wide the doors they throw ; 
Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go ; 



510 



P0E3IS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



In gloomy lines they, mustering, stand beneath the 

hollow porch, 
Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and 

flaming torch ; 
Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is 

wailing. 
For all have heard the misery — " Alas ! alas for 

Celin ! " 

Him, yesterday, a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje's 
blood — 

'Twas at the solemn jousting — around the nobles 
stood ; 

The nobles of the land were by, and ladies bright 
and fair 

Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty 
sight to share ; 

But now the nobles all lament — the ladies are be- 
wailing — 

For he was Granada's darling knight — " Alas ! alas 
for Celin ! " 

Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two, 
With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful 

to view ; 
Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable 

veil. 
Between the tambour's dismal strokes take up their 

doleful tale ; 
When stops the mufled drum, ye hear their broth- 

erless bewailing. 
And all the people, far and near, cry — " Alas ! alas 

for Celin!" 

Oh ! lovely lies he on the bier, above the purple 

pall, — 
The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of 

them all ; 
His dark, dark eyes are closed ; his rosy lip is pale ; 
The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his 

burnished mail ; 
And ever more the hoarse tambour breaks in upon 

their wailing — 
Its sound is like no earthly sound — "Alas! alas 

for Celin ! " 

The Moorish maid at the lattice stands — the Moor 

stands at his door ; 
One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is 

weeping sore ; 



Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes 

black they strew 
Upon iheir broidered garments of crimson, green, 

and blue ; 
Before each gate the bier stands still — then bursts 

the loud bewailing 
From door and lattice, high and low — " Alas ! alas 

for Celin ! " 

An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears 

the people cry — 
Her hair is white .as silver, like horn her glazed eye : 
'Twas she that nursed him at her breast, that 

nursed him long ago ; 
She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she 

well shall know ! 
With one deep shriek, she through doth break, 

when her ears receive their wailing — 
"Let me kiss my Celin ere I die — alas! alas for 

Celin ! " 

Anonymous. OWoorish.) 
Translation of J. G. Lockhabt. 



'^X berg iHouruful Ballair. 

ON THE SIESE AND CONQUEST OP ALHAMA, WHICH, 
IN THE ARABIC LANGUAGE, IS TO THE FOLLOW- 
ING PUEPORT : 

The Moorish king rides up and down 
Through Granada's royal town ; 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Letters to the monarch tell 
How Alhama's city fell : 
In the fire the scroll he threw, 
And the messenger he slew. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

He quits his mule and mounts his horse. 
And through the street directs his course ; 
Through the street of Zacatin 
To the Alhambra spurring in. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

When the Alhambra's walls he gained, 
On the moment he ordained 



A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD. 511 


That the trumpet straight should sound 


Fire flashed from out the old Moor's eyes. 


With the silver clarion round. 


The monarch's wrath began to rise : 


Wo is me, Alhama ! 


Because he answered, and because 




He spake exceeding well of laws. 


And when the hollow drums of war 


Wo is me, Alhama ! 


Beat the loud alarm afar, 




That the Moors of town and plain 


" There is no law to say such things 


Might answer to the martial strain. 


As may disgust the ear of kings : " — 


Wo is me, Alhama ! 


Thus, snorting with his choler, said 




The Moorish king, and doomed him dead. 


Then the Moors, by this aware 


Wo is me, Alhama ! 


That bloody Mars recalled them there, 




One by one, and two by two, 


Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! 


To a mighty squadron grew. 


Though thy beard so hoary be. 


Wo is me, Alhama ! 


The king hath sent to have thee seized, 




For Alhama's loss displeased — 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 


Out then spake an aged Moor, 


In these words the king before : 




" Wherefore call on us, king ? 


And to fix thy head upon 


What may mean this gathering? " 


High Alhambra's loftiest stone ; 


Wo is me, Alhama ! 


That this for thee should be the law, 


" Friends ! ye have, alas ! to know 


And others tremble when they saw. 


Of a most disastrous blow — 


Wo is me, Alhama ! 


That the Christians, stern and bold. 




Have obtained Alhama's hold." 


" Cavalier, and man of worth ! 




Let these words of mine go forth ; 


Wo is me, Alhama ! 


Let the Moorish monarch know 


Out then spake old Alfaqui, 


That to him I nothing owe. 


With his beard so white to see : 


Wo is me, Alhama ! 


" Good king ! thou art justly served — 
Good king ! this thou hast deserved. 


" But on my soul Alhama weighs, 


Wo is me, Alhama ! 


And on my inmost spirit preys; 




And if the king his land hath lost, 


" By thee were slain, in evil hour, 


Yet others may have lost the most. 


The Abeneerrage, Granada's flower ; 


Wo is me, Alhama ! 


And strangers were received by thee. 




Of Cordova the chivalry. 


" Sires have lost their children, wives 


Wo is me, Alhama ! 


Their lords, and valiant men their lives ; 




One what best his love might claim 


" And for this, king ! is sent 


Hath lost ; another, wealth or fame. 


On thee a double chastisement ; 


Wo is me, Alhama ! 


Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, 




One last wreck shall overwhelm. 


" I lost a damsel in that hour. 


Wo is me, Alhama ! 


Of all the land the loveliest flower ; 




Doubloons a hundred I would pay, 


" He who holds no laws in awe, 


And think her ransom cheap that day." 


He must perish by the law ; 


Wo is me, Alhama ! 


And Granada must be won. 




And thyself with her undone." 


And as these things the old Moor said. 


Wo is me, Alhama ! 


They severed from the trunk his head ; 



512 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORBOW. 



And to the Alhambra's walls with speed 
'Twas carried, as the king decreed. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

And men and infants therein weep 
Their loss, so heavy and so deep ; 
G-ranada's ladies, all she rears 
Within her walls, burst into tears. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

And from the windows o'er the walls 
The sable web of mourning falls ; 
The king weeps as a woman o'er 
His loss, for it is much and sore. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Anonymous. (Spanish.) 
Translation of Lord Byron. 



®l)e iFisl)crmen. 

Three fishers went sailing out into the west — 

Out into the west as the sun went down ; 
Bach thought of the woman who loved him the best, 
And the children stood watching them out of the 
town; 
For men must work, and women must weep ; 
And there 's little to earn, and many to keep, 
Though the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three wives sat up in the light-house tower. 

And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ; 
And they looked at the squall, and they looked at 
the shower. 
And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and 
brown ; 
But men must work, and women must weep, 
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 
And the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 

In the morning gleam as the tide went down, 
And the women are watching and wringing their 
hands, 
For those who will never come, back to the 
town ; 
For men must work, and women must weep — 
And the sooner it 's over, the sooner to sleep — 
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. 

Charles Kingslby. 



@ri)e |)risoncr of (IIl)iUon. 

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind ! 
Brightest in dungeons, liberty, thou art, 
For there thy habitation is the heart — 

The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 

And when thy sons to fetters are consigned — 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom - 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom. 

And freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 

Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, 
And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod 

Until his very steps have left a trace. 
Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 

By Bonnivard ! — May none those marks efface ! 

For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



My hair is gray, but not with years, 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night. 
As men's have grown from sudden fears ; 
My limbs are bowed, though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose ; 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil. 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are banned and barred — forbidden fare. 
But this was for my father's faith 
I suffered chains and courted death. 
That father perished at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darlvness found a dwelling-place. 
We were seven, who now are one — 

Six in youth, and one in age. 
Finished as they had begun. 

Proud of persecution's rage : 
One in fire, and two in field. 
Their belief with blood have sealed — 
Dying as their father died, 
For the God their foes denied ; 
Three were in a dungeon cast. 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 



There are seven pillars, of Gothic mould. 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old ; 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



513 



There are seven columns, massy and gray, 
Dim with a dull imprisoned ray — 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way. 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left, 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp ; 
And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain : 
That iron is a cankering thing, 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
"With marks that will not wear away 
Till I have done with this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er ; 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother drooped and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 

m. 

They chained us each to a column stone, 
And we were three — yet, each alone 
We could not move a single pace ; 
We could not see each other's face, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight ; 
And thus together, yet apart — 
Fettered in hand, but joined in heart, 
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth. 
To hearken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each — 
With some new hope or legend old. 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon-stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free. 
As they of yore were wont to be ; 
It might be fancy — but to me 
They never sounded like our own, . 



I was the eldest of the three. 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do, and did, my best — 

And each did well in his degree. 



35 



The youngest, whom my father loved. 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him, with eyes as blue as heaven — 

For him my soul was sorely moved ; 
And truly might it be distrest 
To see such bird in such a nest ; 
For he was beautiful as day 

(When day was beautiful to me 

As to young eagles, being free), 

A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer 's gone — 

Its sleepless summer of long light, 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 

And thus he was, as pure and bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay, 
With tears for naught but other's ills ; 
And then they flowed like mountain rills. 
Unless he could assuage the woe 
Which he abhorred to view below. 



The other was as pure of mind, 
But formed to combat with his kind ; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
And perished in the foremost rank 

With joy ; but not in chains to pine. 
His spirit withered with their clank ; 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so, perchance, in sooth, did mine ! 
But yet I forced it on, to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hUls, 

Had followed there the deer and wolf ; 
To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
And fettered feet the worst of His. 



Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls, 
A thousand feet in depth below, 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement. 

Which round about the wave enthrals ; 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave, 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay ; 
*We heard it ripple night and day ; 



514 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



Sounding o'er our heads it knocked. 

And I have felt the winter's spray 

Wash through the bars when winds were high, 

And wanton in the happy sky ; 

And then the very roelc hath rocked, 
And I have felt it shake, unshocked ; 

Because I could have smiled to see 

The death that would have set me free. 

VII. 

I said my nearer brother pined ; 
I said his mighty heart declined. 
He loathed and put away his food ; 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude. 
For we were used to hunter's fare. 
And for the like had little care. 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat ; 
Our bread was such as captives' tears 
Have moistened many a thousand years. 
Since man first pent his fellow-men, 
Like brutes, within an iron den. 
But what were^these to us or him ? 
These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side. 
But why delay the truth? — he died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head. 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain. 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they unlocked his chain, 
And scooped for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begged them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought ; ■ 
But then within my brain it wrought. 
That even in death his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer — 
They coldly laughed, and laid hihi there. 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love ; 
His empty chain above it leant — 
Such murder's fitting monument ! 



VIII. 

But he, the favorite and the flower. 
Most cherished since his natal hour, 
His mother's image in fair face. 
The infant love of all his race, 
His martyred father's dearest thought, 
My latest care — for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that his might be 
Less wretched now, and one day free — 
He too, who yet had held untired 
A spirit natural or inspired — 
He, too, was struck, and day by day 
Was withered on the stalk away. 

God ! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood : 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood ; 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean 

Strive with a swollen, convulsive motion ; 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of sin, delirious with its dread ; 

But these were horrors, this was woe 

Unmixed with such, but sure and slow. 

He faded, and so calm and meek, 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak. 

So tearless, yet so tender, kind. 

And grieved for those he left behind ; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 

Was as a mockery of the tomb. 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light. 

That almost made the dungeon bright. 

And not a word of murmur, not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot — 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise ; 

For I was sunk in silence, lost 

In this last loss, of all the most. 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness. 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less. 

1 listened, but I could not hear — 
I called, for I was wild with fear ; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 
Would not be thus admonished ; 
I called, and thought I heard a sound — 
I burst my chain with one strong bound. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



515 



And rushed to him : I found him not. 

I only stirred in this black spot ; 

I only lived — I only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 

The last, the sole, the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink. 

Which bound me to my failing race, 

"Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathe. 

I took that hand which lay so still — 

Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 

I had not strength to stir or strive, 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope, but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 



What next befell me then and there 

I know not well, I never knew. 
First came the loss of light and air. 

And then of darkness too. 
I had no thought, no feeling — none : 
Among the stones I stood a stone ; 
And was scarce conscious what 1 wist. 
As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and gray ; 
It was not night — it was not day ; 
It was not even the dungeon-light. 
So hateful to my heavy sight ; 
But vacancy absorbing space. 
And fixedness, without a place ; 
There were no stars, no earth, no time. 
No check, no change, no good, no crime. 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death — 
A sea of stagnant idleness, 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless. 



A light broke in upon my brain — 
It was the carol of a bird ; 

It ceased, and then it came again — 
The sweetest song ear ever heard ; 



And mine was thankful till my eyes 

Ran over with the glad surpi'ise. 

And they that moment could not see 

I was the mate of misery ; 

But then, by dull degrees came back 

My senses to their wonted track : 

I saw the dungeon walls and floor 

Close slowly round me as before ; 

I saw the glimmer of the sun 

Creeping as it before had done ; 

But through the crevice where it came 

That bird was perched as fond and tame. 

And tamer than upon the tree — 
A lovely bird with azure wings, 
And song that said a thousand things. 

And seemed to say them all for me ! 
I never saw its like before — 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more. 
It seemed, like me, to want a mate. 
But was not half so desolate ; 
And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again. 
And, cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
Had brought me back to feel and think, 
I know not if it late were free. 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine ; 
But knowing well captivity, 

Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine -^ 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 
For — Heaven forgive that thought, the while 
Which made me both to weep and smile ! — 
I sometimes deemed that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me ; 
But then at last away it flew. 
And then 'twas mortal well I knew ; 
For he would never thus have flown, 
And left me twice so doubly lone — 
Lone as the corse within its shroud. 
Lone as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day. 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere, 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 

XI. 

A kind of change came in my fate — 
My keepers grew compassionate. 



1 

516 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


I know not what had made them so — 


But in it there were three tall trees, 


They were inured to sights of woe ; 


And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 


But so it was — my broken chain 


And by it there were waters flowing, 


With links unfastened did remain ; 


And on it there were young flowers growing 


And it was liberty to stride 


Of gentle breath and hue. 


Along my cell from side to side, 


The fish swam by the castle wall, 


And up and down, and then athwart, 


And they seemed joyous, each and all ; 


And tread it -over every part ; 


The eagle rode the rising blast — 


And round the pillars one by one, 


Methought he never flew so fast 


Returning where my walk begun — 


As then to me he seemed to fly ; 


Avoiding only, as I trod, 


And then new tears came in my eye, 


My brothers' graves without a sod ; 


And I felt troubled, and would fata 


For if I thought with heedless tread 


I had not left my recent chain ; 


My step profaned their lowly bed. 


And when I did descend again, 


My breath came gaspingly and thick, 


The darkness of my dim abode 


And my crushed heart fell blind and sick. 


Fell on me as a heavy load ; 




It was as is a new-dug grave. 


xn. 


Closing o'er one we sought to save ; 


I made a footing in the wall : 


And yet my glance, too much opprest, 


Had almost need of such a rest. 


It was not therefrom to escape, 




For I had buried one and all 


XIV. 


Who loved me in a human shape ; 


It might be months, or years, or days — 


And the whole earth would henceforth be 


I kept no count, I took no note — 


A wider prison unto me ; 


I had no hope my eyes to raise. 


No child, no sire, no kin had I, 


And clear them of then- dreary mote ; 


No partner in my misery. 


At last came men to set me free, 


I thought of this, and I was glad. 


I asked not why, and recked not where ; 


For thought of them had made me mad ; 


It was at length the same to me, 


But I was curious to ascend 


Fettered or fetterless to be ; 


To my barred windows, and to bend 


I learned to love despair. 


Once more upon the mountains high 


And thus, when they appeared at last, 


The quiet of a loving eye. 


And all my bonds aside were cast, 




These heavy walls to me had grown 


xin. 


A hermitage — and all my own ! 




And half I felt as they were come 


I saw them — and they were the same ; 


To tear me from a sacred home. 


They were not changed, like me, in frame ; 
I saw their thousand years of snow 


With spiders I had friendship made. 
And watched them in their sullen trade ; 


On high — their wide, long lake below,- 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 


Had seen the mice by moonlight play — 
And why should I feel less than they ? 
We were all inmates of one place. 
And I, the monarch of each race. 


I heard the torrents leap and gush 


O'er channelled rock and broken bush ; 


I saw the white-walled distant town. 




And whiter sails go skimming' down ; 


Had power to kill ; yet, strange to tell ! 
In quiet we had learned to dwell. 


And then there was a little isle, 


Which in my very face did smile — 


My very chains and I grew friends, 




So much a long communion tends 


The only one in view ; 


To make us what we are — even I 


A small, green isle, it seemed no more. 




Scarce broader than my dungeon floor ; 


Regained my freedom with a sigh. 

Lord Btuon. 



THE KING- OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 



517 



Through the night, through the night, 

In the saddest unrest. 
Wrapt in white, all in white, 

With her babe on her breast, 
Walks the mother so pale, 
Staring out on the gale 

Through the night ! 

Through the night, through the night. 
Where the sea lifts the wreck, 

Land in sight, close in sight. 
On the surf-flooded deck 

Stands the father so brave, 

Driving on to his grave 
Through the night ! 

Richard Henry Stoddard. 



€l)c Hing of JUcnmark's libe. 

Word was brought to the Danish king 

(Hurry ! ) 
That the love of his heart lay suffering, 
And pined for the comfort his voice would bring ; 

(Oh ! ride as though you were flying ! ) 
Better he loves each golden curl 
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl 
Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl ; 

And his rose of the isles is dying ! 

Thirty nobles saddled with speed ; 

(Hurry ! ) 
Each one mounting a gallant steed 
Which he kept for battle and days of need ; 

(Oh ! ride as though you were flying !) 
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank ; 
Worn-out chargers staggered and sank ; 
Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst ; 
But ride as they would, the king rode first, 

For his rose of the isles lay dying ! 

His nobles are beaten, one by one ; 

(Hurry ! ) 
They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward 

gone ; 
His little fair page now follows alone. 



For strength and for courage trying ! 
The king looked back at that faithful child ; 
Wan was the face that answering smiled ; 
They passed the drawbridge -with clattering din. 
Then he dropped ; and only the king rode in 

Where his rose of the isles lay dying ! 

The king blew a blast on his bugle-horn ; 

(SUence!) 
No answer came ; but faint and forlorn 
An echo returned on the cold gray morn. 

Like the breath of a spirit sighing. 
The castle portal stood grimly wide ; 
None welcomed the king from that weary ride ; 
For dead, in the light of the dawning day, 
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay. 

Who had yearned for his voice while dying ! 

The panting steed, with a drooping crest. 

Stood weary. 
The king returned from her chamber of rest. 
The thick sobs choking in his breast ; 

And, that dumb companion eyeing. 
The tears gushed forth which he strove to check ; 
He bowed his head on his charger's neck : 
" steed — that every nerve didst strain, 
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain 

To the halls where my love lay dying ! " 

Caroline Norton. 



The spearmen heard the bugle sound. 

And cheerily smiled the morn ; 
And many a brach, and many a hound. 

Attend Llewelyn's horn. 
And still he blew a louder blast, 

And gave a louder cheer : 
" Come, Gelert, come, wert never last 

Llewelyn's horn to hear ! 
Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam — 

The flower of all his race : 
So true, so brave — a lamb at home, 

A lion in the chase % " 

'Twas only at Llewelyn's board 

The faithful Gelert fed ; 
He watched, he served, he cheered his lord. 

And sentinelled his bed. 





518 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


In sooth he was a peerless hound, 


What words the parent's joy could teU, 


The gift of royal John ; 


To hear his infant's cry ! 


But now no Gelert could be found, 


Concealed beneath a tumbled heap, 


And all the chase rode on. 


His hurried search had missed, 


And now, as o'er the rocks and dells 


All glowing from his rosy sleep, 


The gallant chidings rise, 


The cherub boy he kissed ! 


All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells 


Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread, 


The many-mingled cries ! 


But, the same couch beneath, 


That day Llewel}Ti little loved 
The chase of hart and hare ; 


Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead — 
Tremendous stUl in death ! 


And scant and small the booty proved. 


Ah ! what was then Llewelyn's pain ! 


For Gelert was not there. 


For now the truth was clear ; 


Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied, 


His gallant hound the wolf had slain 


When, near the portal-seat. 


To save Llewelyn's heir. 


His truant Gelert he espied. 


Vain, vain, was all Llewelyn's woe : 


Bounding his lord to greet. 


" Best of thy kind, adieu ! 


But when he gained his castle door. 


The frantic blow which laid thee low. 


Aghast the chieftain stood ; 


This heart shall ever rue ! " 


The hound all o'er was smeared with gore ; 


And now a gallant tomb they raise, 


His lips, his fangs, ran blood ! 


With costly sculpture decked ; 




And marbles, storied with his praise, 


Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise, 


Poor Gelert's bones protect. 


Unused such looks to meet ; 




His favorite checked his joyful guise 


There never could the spearman pass 


And crouched and licked his feet. 


Or forester unmoved ; 


Onward in haste Llewelyn passed, 


There oft the tear-besprinkled grass 


And on went Gelert too ; 


Llewelyn's sorrow proved. 


And still, where'er his eyes were cast. 


And there he hung his horn and spear, 


Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view ! 


And there, as evening fell. 


O'erturned his infant's bed he found, 


In fancy's ear he oft would hear 


With blood-stained cover rent, 


Poor Gelert's dying yell. 


And all around, the walls and ground 


And till great Snowdon's rocks grow old, 


With recent blood besprent. 


And cease the storm to brave. 




The consecrated spot shall hold 


He called his child — no voice replied — 


The name of " Gelert's Grave." 


He searched with terror wild ; 


WlLLIAJSt ROBEET SPENCER. 


Blood, blood, he found on every side. 




But nowhere found his child ! 




" Hell-hound ! my child 's by thee devoured ! " 
The frantic father cried ; 


toxh Ellin's ^axi%\\izx. 


And to the hilt his vengeful sword 


A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, 


He plunged in Gelert's side ! 


Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! 


His suppliant looks, as prone he fell, 


And I'll give thee a silver pound 


No pity could impart ; • 


To row us o'er the ferry." 


But still his Gelert's dying yell 
Passed heavy o'er his heart. 


" Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 
This dark and stormy water ? " 


Aroused by Gelert's dying yell. 


" Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle. 


Some slumberer wakened nigh : 


And this Lord Ullin's daughter. 



ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. 519 


" And fast before her father's men 
Three days we've fled together ; 

For should he find us in the glen, 
My blood would stain the heather. 


" Come back ! come back ! " he cried in grief, 

" Across this stormy water ; 
And I'll forgive your Highland chief. 

My daughter ! — my daughter ! " 


" His horsemen hard behind us ride ; 

Should they our steps discover, 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride 

When they have slain her lover? " 


'Twas vain : — the loud waves lashed the shore. 

Return or aid preventing. 
The waters wild went o'er his child, 

And he was left lamenting. 


Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
"I'U go, my chief — I'm ready. 

It is not for your silver bright. 
But for your winsome lady. 


Thomas Campbbll. 

®n tl)c toQQ of tl)e logol ®corgc. 


" And by my word ! the bonny bird 

In danger shall not tarry ; 
So though the waves are raging white, 

I'll row you o'er the ferry." 

By this the storm grew loud apace ; 

The water-wraith was shrieking ; 
And in the scowl of heaven each face 

Grew dark as they were speaking. 


WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED. 

Toll for the brave — 

The brave that are no more I 
All sunk beneath the wave. 

Fast by their native shore I 

Eight hundred of the brave. 
Whose courage well was tried, 

Had made the vessel heel. 
And laid her on her side. 


But still as wilder blew the wind, 
And as the night grew drearer, 

Adown the glen rode armed men — 
Their trampling sounded nearer. 


A land breeze shook the shrouds, 
And she was overset — 

Down went the Royal George, 
With all her crew complete. 


" haste thee, haste ! " the lady cries, 
" Though tempests round us gather ; 

I'll meet the raging of the skies, 
But not an angry father." 


Toll for the brave ! 

Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; 
His last sea-flght is fought. 

His work of glory done. 


The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her — 
When, oh ! too strong for human hand. 

The tempest gathered o'er her. 


• 

It was not in the battle ; 

No tempest gave the shock ; 
She sprang no fatal leak ; 

She ran upon no rock. 


And still they rowed amidst the roar 
Of waters fast prevailing — 

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore ; 
His wrath was changed to wailing. 


His sword was in its sheath ; 

His fingers held the pen. 
When Kempenfelt went down 

With twice four hundred men. 


For sore dismayed, through storm and shade 

His child he did discover ; 
One lovely hand she stretched for aid. 

And one was round her lover. 


Weigh the vessel up. 

Once dreaded by our foes ! 
And mingle with our cup 

The tear that England owes. 



530 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


Her timbers yet are sound, 


" Come hither ! come hither ! my little daughter. 


And she may float again, 


And do not tremble so ; 


Full charged with England's thunder, 


For I can weather the roughest gale 


And plough the distant main. ' 


That ever wind did blow." 


But Kempenfelt is gone — 


He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 


His victories are o'er ; 


Against the stinging blast ; 


And he and his eight hundred 


He cut a rope from a broken spar. 


Shall plough the waves no more. 


And bound her to the mast. 


WlLMAM COWPBB. 






" father ! I hear the church-bells ring ; 




Oh say, what may it be ? " 




" 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast ! " 


^\)Z torcck of tl)e f cspcirus. 


And he steered for the open sea. 


It was the schooner Hesperus 


" father ! I hear the sound of guns ; 


That sailed the wintry sea ; 


Oh say, what may it be ? " 


And the skipper had taken his little daughter. 


" Some ship in distress, that cannot live 


To bear him company. 


In such an angry sea ! " 


Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, 


" father ! I see a gleaming light I 


Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 


Oh say, what may it be ? " 


And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds. 


But the father answered never a word — 


That ope in the month of May. 


A frozen corpse was he. 


The skipper he stood beside the helm ; 


Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 


His pipe was in his mouth ; 


With his face turned to the skies. 


And he watched how the veering flaw did blow 


The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 


The smoke, now west, now south. 


On his fixed and glassy eyes. 


Then up and spake an old sailor. 


Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 


Had sailed the Spanish main : 


That saved she miglit be ! 


" I pray thee, put into yonder port. 


And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave 


For I fear a hurricane. 


On the Lake of Galilee. 


" Last night the moon had a golden ring. 


And fast through the midnight dark and drear. 


And to-night no moon we see ! " 


Through the whistling sleet and snow, 


The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, 


Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 


And a scornful laugh laughed he. 


Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. 


Colder and louder blew the wind. 


And ever, the fitful gusts between. 


A gale from the northeast ; 


A sound came from the land ; 


The snow fell hissing in the brine, 


It was the sound of the trampling surf 


And the billows frothed like jieast. 


On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 


Down came the storm, and smote amain 


The breakers were right beneath her bows ; 


The vessel in its strength ; 


She drifted a dreary wreck ; • 


She shuddered and paused like a frighted steed, 


And a whooping billow swept the crew. 


Then leaped her cable's length. 


Like icicles, from her deck. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 



521 



She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool ; 
But the cruel rocks they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
"With the mast went by the board ; 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank — 
Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast. 
To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed. 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
In the midnight and the snow ; 

Christ save us all from a death like this. 
On the reef of Norman's Woe ! 

Hbnbt Wadswobth Longfellow. 



W)t lncl)capc Hock. 

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea — 
The ship was still as she might be ; 
Her sails from heaven received no motion ; 
Her keel was steady in the ocean. 

Without either sign or sound of their shock. 
The waves flowed over the Inchcape rock ; 
So little they rose, so little they fell, 
They did not move the Inchcape bell. 

The holy abbot of Aberbrothok 
Had floated that bell on the Inchcape rock ; 
On the waves of the storm it floated and swung. 
And louder and louder its warning rung. 

When the rock was hid by the tempest's swell. 
The mariners heard the warning bell ; 
And then they knew the perilous rock. 
And blessed the priest of Aberbrothok. 



The sun in heaven shone so gay — 

All things were joyful on that day ; 

The sea-birds screamed as they sported round, 

And there was pleasure in their sound. 

The float of the Inchcape bell was seen, 
A darker speck on the ocean green ; 
Sir Ralph the rover walked his deck. 
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. 

He felt the cheering power of spring — 
It made him whistle, it made him sing ; 
His heart was mirthful to excess ; 
But the rover's mirth was wickedness. 

His eye was on the bell and float : 
Quoth he, " My men, pull out the boat ; 
And row me to the Inchcape rock. 
And I'll plague the priest of Aberbrothok." 

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, 
And to the Inchcape rock they go ; 
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat. 
And cut the warning bell from the float. 

Down sank the bell with a gurgling sound ; 
The bubbles rose, and burst around. 
Quoth Sir Ralph, " The next who comes to the rock 
Will not bless the priest of Aberbrothok." 

Sir Ralph the rover sailed away — 
He scoured the seas for many a day ; 
And now, grown rich with plundered store. 
He steers his course to Scotland's shore. 

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky. 
They could not see the sun on high ; 
The wind had blown a gale all day ; 
At evening it hath died away. 

On the deck the rover takes his stand ; 
So dark it is, they see no land. 
Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be lighter soon. 
For there is the dawn of the rising moon." 

" Canst hear," said one, " the breakers roar ? 
For yonder, methinks, should be the shore. 
Now where we are I cannot tell. 
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape bell." 




522 



P0E3IS OF TJRAGUDY AND SORROW. 



They hear no sound ; the swell is strong ; 
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along ; 
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock — 
Christ ! it is the Inchcape rock ! 

EOBBRT SOUTHET. 



9[|)c iJloriner's Mxzam. 

In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay ; 

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the 
wind ; 
But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away. 

And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. 

He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bow- 
ers. 
And pleasures that waited on life's merry 
morn ; 
While Memory stood sideways half covered with 
flowers, 
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. 

Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide. 
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise ; 

Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, 
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. 

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch. 
And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in 
the wall ; 

All trembling with transport, he raises the latch. 
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. 

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight ; 
His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm 
tear; 
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite 
With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds 
dear. 

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast ; 
Joy quickens his pulses — his hardships seem 
o'er ; 
And a murmur of happiness steals through his 
rest — 
" Grod ! thou hast blest me — I ask for no 
more." 



Ah ! whence is that flame which now bursts on his 
eye? 
Ah ! what is that sound which now 'larms on his 
ear? 
'Tis the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the 
sky! 
'Tis the clashing of thunders, the groan of the 
sphere ! 

He springs from his hammock — he flies to the 
deck; 
Amazement confronts him with images dire ; 
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a 
wreck ; 
The masts fly in splinters ; the shrouds are on 
fire. 

Like mountains the billows tremendously swell ; 

In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save ; 
Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, 

And the death-angel flaps his broad wings o'er 
the wave ! 

sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight ! 

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss. 
Where now is the picture that fancy touched 
bright — 
Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed 
kiss? 

sailor boy ! sailor boy ! never again 
Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay ; 

Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main, 
Full many a fathom, thy frame shaU decay. 

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for 
thee, 
Or redeem form or fame from the merciless 
surge, 
But the white foam of waves shall thy winding- 
sheet be. 
And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge ! 

On a bed of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall be 
laid — 
Around thy white bones the red coral shall 
grow; 
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made. 
And every part suit to thy mansion below. 



HOW 'S 3IY BOY? 533 


Days, months, years, and ages shall ch'cle away, 


" Every man on board went down, 




And still the vast waters above thee shall roll ; 


Every man aboard her." 




Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye — 






sailor boy ! sailor boy ! peace to thy soul ! 


" How 's my boy — my boy ? 




■William Ddhond. 


What care I for the men, sailor? 
I'm not their mother — 






How 's my boy — my boy ? 


\ 




Tell me of him and no other ! 




fora's tng JBoa? 


How's my boy — my boy?" 




" Ho, sailor of the sea ! 


Sydney Dobell. 




How 's my boy — my boy ? " 






" What 's your boy's name, good wife, 


Slje illoon toas ^-toaning. 




And in what good ship sailed he ? " 




"My boy John — 

He that went to sea — 

What care I for the ship, sailor? 

My boy 's my boy to me. 


The moon was a-waning, 
The tempest was over ; 

Fair was the maiden. 
And fond was the lover ; 

But the snow was so deep 




" You come back from sea, 

And not know my John ? 

I might as well have asked some landsman, 


That his heart it grew weary ; 
And he sunk down to sleep. 
In the moorland so dreary. 




Yonder down in the town. 

There 's not an ass in all the parish 

But knows my John. 


Soft was the bed 

She had made for her lover, 
WTiite were the sheets 




" How 's my boy — my boy f 
And unless you let me know 
I'll swear you are no sailor, 
Blue jacket or no — 
Brass buttons or no, sailor, 


And embroidered the cover ; 
But his sheets are more white. 

And his canopy grander ; 
And sounder he sleeps 

Where the hill foxes wander. 




Anchor and crown or no — 


Alas, pretty maiden, 




Sure his ship was the ' Jolly Briton ' " — 


What sorrows attend you ! 




" Speak low, woman, speak low ! " 


I see you sit shivering, 




" And why should I speak low, sailor, 


With lights at your window ; 
But long may you wait 




About my own boy John f 


Ere your arms shall enclose him ; 




If I was loud as I am proud 


For still, still he lies, 




I'd sing him over the town ! 


With a wreath on his bosom. 




Why should I speak low, sailor ? " 






" That good ship went down." 


How painful the task 

The sad tidings to tell you ! — 




" How 's my boy — my boy ? 


An orphan you were 




What care I for the ship, sailor — 


Ere this misery befell you ; 




I was never aboard her. 


And far in yon wild. 




Be she afloat or be she aground. 


Where the dead-tapers hover, 




Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound 


So cold, cold and wan. 




Her owners can afford her ! 


Lies the corpse of your lover ! 




I say, how 's my John ? " 


James Hogg. 





534 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 




Turning to mirth all things of earth, 


®om Sotuling. 


As only boyhood can ; 




But the usher sat remote from all, 


Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 


A melancholy man I 


The darling of our crew ; 




No more he'll hear the tempest howling, 


His hat was off, his vest apart. 


For Death has broached him to. 


To catch Heaven's blessed breeze ; 


His form was of the manliest beauty ; 


For a burning thought was in his brow, 


His heart was kind and soft ; 


And his bosom ill at ease ; 


Faithful below, he did his duty ; 


So he leaned his head on his hands, and read 


But now he 's gone aloft. 


The book between his knees ! 


Tom never from his word departed, 


Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, 


His virtues were so rare ; 
His friends were many and true-hearted ; 


Nor ever glanced aside ; 
For the peace of his soul he read that book 


His Poll was kind and fair. 


r^ 




In the golden eventide ; 
Much study had made him very lean, 


And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, 


Ah, many 's the time and oft ! 
But mirth is turned to melancholy, 


And pale, and leaden-eyed. 


For Tom is gone aloft. 


At last he shut the ponderous tome ; 


Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather. 


With a fast and fervent grasp 


When He who all commands. 


He strained the dusky covers close, 


Shall give, to call life's crew together, 


And fixed the brazen hasp : 


The word to pipe all hands. . 


" God ! could I so close my mind 


Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches. 


And clasp it with a clasp ! " 


In vain Tom's life has doffed ; 




For, though his body 's under hatches. 


Then leaping on his feet upright, 


His soul is gone aloft. 


Some moody turns he took. 


Charles Dlbdin. 


Now up the mead, then down the mead, 




And past a shady nook. 




And, lo ! he saw a little boy 


ai)e JDream of QFugenc ^ratn. 


That pored upon a book ! 


'TwAS in the prime of summer time. 
An evening calm and cool, 


" My gentle lad, what is 't you read, 


Roraance or fairy fable ? 


And four-and-twenty happy boys 
Came bounding out of school ; 


Or is it some historic page. 
Of kings and crowns unstable ? " 


There were some that ran and some that leapt 


The young boy gave an upward glance — 
" It is ' The Death of Abel.' " 


Like troutlets in a pool. 




Away they sped with gamesome minds 


The usher took six hasty strides, 


And souls untouched by sin : 


As smit with sudden pain — 


To a level mead they came, and there 


Six hasty strides beyond the place, 


They drave the wickets in : ' 


Then slowly back again ; 


Pleasantly shone the setting sun 


And down he sat beside the lad. 


Over the town of Lynn. 


And talked with him of Cain ; 


Like sportive deer they coursed about, 


And, long since then, of bloody men. 


And shouted as they ran, 


Whose deeds tradition saves ; 



H 



THE DREAM OF 


EUGENE ARAM. 


525 


, And lonely folk cut o£E unseen, 


Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes 




And hid in sudden grayes ; 


Were looking down in blame ; 




And horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, 


I took the dead man by his hand. 




And murders done in caves ; 


And called upon his name ! 




And how the sprites of injured men 


" God ! it made me quake to see 




Shriek upward from the sod ; 


Such sense within the slain ! 




Aye, how the ghostly hand will point 


But when I touched the lifeless clay, 




To show the burial clod ; 


The blood gushed out amain ! 




And unknown facts of guilty acts 


For every clot a burning spot 




Are seen in dreams from God ! 


Was scorching in my brain ! 




He told how murderers walk the earth 


" My head was like an ardent coal, 




Beneath the curse of Cain, 


My heart as solid ice ; 




With crimson clouds before their eyes. 


My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, 




And flames about their brain ; 


Was at the devil's price. 




For blood has left upon their souls 


A dozen times I groaned — the dead 




Its everlasting stain ! 


Had never groaned but twice I 




" And well," quoth he, " I know for truth. 


" And now from forth the frowning sky. 




Their pangs must be extreme — 


From the heaven's topmost height. 




Woe, woe, unutterable woe — 


I heard a voice, the awful voice 




Who spLU life's sacred stream ! 


Of the blood-avenging sprite : 




For why ? Methought, last night I wrought 


' Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead. 




A murder, in a dream ! 


And hide it from my sight ! ' 




" One that had never done me wrong, 


" And I took the dreary body up. 




A feeble man and old ; 


And cast it in a stream — 




I led him to a lonely field — 


The sluggish water black as ink, 




The moon shone clear and cold : 


The depth was so extreme : 




Now here, said I, this man shall die, 


My gentle boy, remember ! this 




And I will have his gold ! 


Is nothing but a dream ! 




" Two sudden blows with a ragged stick. 


" Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, 


And one with a heavy stone, 


And vanished in the pool ; 




One hurried gash with a hasty knife — 


Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, 




And then the deed was done : 


And washed my forehead cool. 




There was nothing lying at my feet 


And sat among the urchins young. 




But lifeless flesh and bone ! 


That evening in the school. 




" Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone. 


" Heaven ! to think of their white souls. 




That could not do me ill ; 


And mine so black and grim ! 




And yet I feared him all the more. 


I could not share in childish prayer, 




For lying there so still : 


Nor join in evening hymn ; 




There was a manhood in his look, 


Like a devil of the pit I seemed, 




That murder could not kill ! 


'Mid holy cherubim ! 




" And lo ! the universal air 


" And peace went with them, one and aU, 




Seemed lit with ghastly flame ; 


And each calm pillow spread ; 






526 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


But guilt was my grim chamberlain, 


As soon as the mid-day task was done. 


That lighted me to bed, 


In secret I was there — 


And drew my midnight curtains round 


And a mighty wind had swept the leaves. 


"With fingers bloody red 1 


And still the corse was bare ! 


" All night I lay in agony. 


" Then down I cast me on my face, 


In anguish dark and deep ; 


And first began to weep. 


My fevered eyes I dared not close, 


For I knew my secret then was one 


But stared aghast at Sleep ; 


That earth refused to keep — 


For sin had rendered unto her 


Or land or sea, though he should be 


The keys of hell to keep ! 


Ten thousand fathoms deep. 


" All night I lay in agony. 


" So wills the fierce avenging sprite, 


From weary chime to chime ; 


Till blood for blood atones ! 


With one besetting horrid hint, 


Aye, though he 's buried in a cave. 


That racked me all the time — 


And trodden down with stones, 


A mighty yearning, like the first 


And years have rotted off his flesh. 


Fierce impulse unto crime — 


The world shall see his bones ! 


" One stern tyrannic thought, that made 


" God ! that horrid, horrid dream 


All other thoughts its slave ! 


Besets me now awake ! 


Stronger and stronger every pulse 


Again, again, with dizzy brain, 


Did that temptation crave. 


The human life I take ; 


Still urging me to go and see 


And my red right hand grows raging hot, 


The dead man in his grave ! 


Like Cranmer's at the stake. 


" Heavily I rose up, as soon 


" And still no peace for the restless clay 


As light was in the sky. 


Will wave or mould allow ; 


And sought the black accursed pool 


The horrid thing pursues my soul — 


With a wild misgiving eye ; 


It stands before me now ! " 


And 1 saw the dead in the river bed. 


The fearful boy looked up, and saw 


For the faithless stream was dry. 


Huge drops upon his brow. 


" Merrily rose the lark, and shook 


That very night, while gentle sleep 


The dew-drop from its wing ; 


The urchin's eyelids kissed, 


But I never marked its morning flight. 


Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn 


I never heard it sing ; 


Through the cold and heavy mist ; 


For I was stooping once again 


And Eugene Aram walked between, 


Under the horrid thing. 


With gyves upon his wrist. 




Thomas Hood. 


" With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, 




I took him up and ran ; 




There was no time to dig a grave 




Before the day began. ' 


^oung ^irljj. 


In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves. 




I hid the murdered man ! 


Ken ye aught of brave Lochiel? 




Or ken ye aught of Airly? 


" And all that day I read in school, 


They have belted on their bright broad swords. 


But my thought was other where ; 


And off and awa' wi' Charlie. 



A SNOW-STORM. 



527 



Now bring me fire, my merry, merry men. 

And bring it red and yarely — 
At mirk midniglit there flashed a light 

O'er the topmost towers of Airly. 

What lowe is yon, quo' the gude Lochiel, 

Which gleams so red and rarely f 
By the God of my kin, quo' young Ogilvie, 

It 's my ain bonnie hame of Airly ! 
Put up your sword, said the brave Lochiel, 

And calm your mood, quo' Charlie ; 
Ere morning glow we'll raise a lowe 

Far brighter than bonnie Airly. 

Oh, yon fair tower 's my native tower ! 

Nor will it soothe my mourning. 
Were London palace, tower, and town, 

As fast and brightly burning. 
It 's no my hame — my father's hame, 

That reddens my cheek sae sairlie — 
But my wife, and twa sweet babes I left 

To smoor in the smoke of Airly. 

Anonymous. 



% Snoro-Storm. 

SCENE IN A VERMONT WINTER. 

'Tis a fearful night in the winter time, 

As cold as it ever can be ; 
The roar of the blast is heard like the chime 

Of the waves on an angry sea. 
The moon is full ; but her silver light 
The storm dashes out with its wings to-night ; 
And over the sky from south to north 
Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth 

lu the strength of a mighty glee. 

All day had the snow come down — all day 

As it never came down before ; 
And over the hills, at sunset, lay 

Some two or three feet, or more ; 
The fence was lost, and the wall of stone ; 
The windows blocked and the well-curbs gone ; 
The haystack had grown to a mountain lift, 
And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift. 

As it lay by the farmer's door. 



The night sets in on a world of snow. 
While the air grows sharp and chill, 

And the warning roar of a fearful blow 
Is heard on the distant hill ; 

And the norther, see ! on the mountain-peak 

In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek ! 

Pie shouts on the plain, ho-ho ! ho-ho ! 

He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, 
And growls with a savage will. 

Such a night as this to be found abroad, 

In the drifts and the freezing air. 
Sits a shivering dog, in the field, by the road, 

With the snow in his shaggy hair. 
He shuts his eyes to the wind and growls ; 
He lifts his head, and moans and howls ; 
Then crouching low, from the cutting sleet, 
His nose is pressed on his quivering feet — 

Pray what does the dog do there ? 

A farmer came from the village plain — 

But he lost the travelled way ; 
And for hours he trod with might and main 

A path for his horse and sleigh ; 
But colder still the cold winds blew, 
And deeper still the deep drifts grew., 
And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown, 
At last in her struggles floundered down, 

Where a log in a hollow lay. 

In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort. 

She plunged in the drifting snow, 
WhUe her master urged, till his breath grew 
short, 

With a word and a gentle blow ; 
But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight ; 
His hands were numb and had lost their might ; 
So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh. 
And strove to shelter himself till day, 

With his coat and the buflialo. 

He has given the last faint jerk of the rein, 

To rouse up his dying steed ; 
And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain 

For help in his master's need. 
For a while he strives with a wistful cry 
To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, 
And wags his tail if the rude winds flap 
The skirt of the buffalo over his lap. 

And whines when he takes no heed. 



528 P0E3IS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


The wind goes down, and the storm is o'er — 


And those whom thou wouldst gladly see 


'Tis the hour of midnight, past ; 


Are waiting there to welcome thee." 


The old trees writhe and bend no more 




In the whirl of the rushing blast. 


He looked, and 'twixt the earth and sky, 


The silent moon with her peaceful light 


Amid the noontide haze. 


Looks down on the hills with snow all white. 


A shadowy region met his eye, 


And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, 


And grew beneath his gaze, 


The blasted pine and the ghostly stump, 


As if the vapors of the air 


Afar on the plain are cast. 


Had gathered into shapes so fair. 


But cold and dead by the hidden log 


Groves freshened as he looked, and flowers 


Are they who came from the town — 


Showed bright on rocky bank. 


The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog, 


And fountains welled beneath the bowers. 


And his beautiful Morgan brown — 


Where deer and pheasant drank. 


In the wide snow-desert, far and grand, 

With his cap on his head and the reins in his hand — 


He saw the glittering streams ; he heard 


The rustling bough and twittering bird. 


The dog with his nose on his master's feet. 


And friends, the dead, in boyhood dear, 


And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet, 


There lived and walked again ; 


Where she lay when she floundered down. 


And there was one who many a year 


Charles Gamagb Eastman. 


Within her grave had lain, ' 




A fair young girl, the hamlet's pride — 




His heart was breaking when she died. 


%\\t Ipuntcr's bisi0n. 


Bounding, as was her wont, she came 


Upon a rock that, high and sheer. 


Right towards his resting-place, 


Hose from the mountain's breast, 


And stretched her hand and called his name. 


A weary hunter of the deer 


With that sweet smiling face. 


Had sat him down to rest, 


Forward, with fixed and eager eyes, 


And bared to the soft summer air. 


The hunter leaned in act to rise : 


His hot red brow and sweaty hair. 


Forward he leaned — and headlong down 




Plunged from that craggy wall ; 


All dim in haze the mountains lay, 
With dimmer vales between ; 


He saw the rocks, steep, stern, and brown 




An instant, in his fall — 


And rivers glimmered on their way, 


A frightful instant, and no more ; 


By forests faintly seen ; 


The dream and life at once were o'er. 


While ever rose a murmuring sound, 




From brooks below and bees around. 


WlLIIAU: CtTLLEN Bbtant. 


He listened, till he seemed to hear 




A strain, so soft and low 


Softlg tOoo oraoa \\tx Srcatl). 


That whether in the mind or ear 




The listener scarce might know ; 


Softly woo away her breath. 


With such a tone, so sweet, so mild. 


Gentle death ! 


The watching mother lulls her child. 


Let her leave thee with no strife, 




Tender, mournful, murmuring life ! 


" Thou weary huntsman," thus it said. 


She hath seen her happy day — 


" Thou faint with toil and heat. 


She hath had her bud and blossom : 


The pleasant land of rest is spread 


Now she pales and shrinks away, 


Before thy very feet. 


Earth, into thy gentle bosom ! 



THE MAY QUEEN. 



529 



She hath done her bidding here, 

Angels dear ! 
Bear her perfect soul above, 

Seraph of the skies — sweet love ! 
Good she was, and fair in youth ; 

And her mind was seen to soar. 
And her heart was wed to truth : 

Take her, then, for evermore — 

For ever — evermore ! 

Barky Cornwall. 



Tou must wake and call me early, call me early, 

mother dear ; 
To-morrow '11 be the happiest time of all the glad 

new-year — 
Of aU the glad new-year, mother, the maddest, 

merriest day ; 
For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

queen o' the May. 

There 's many a black, black eye, they say, but none 
so bright as mine ; 

There 's Margaret and Mary, there 's Kate aijd Caro- 
line; 

But none so fair as little Alice in aU the land, they 
say: 

So I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
queen o' the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall 

never wake. 
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to 

break ; 
But I must gather knots of flowers and buds, and 

garlands gay ; 
For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

queen o' the May. 

As I came up the valley, whom think ye should 1 
see, 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel- 
tree? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him 
yesterday — 

But I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
queen o' the May. 

S6 



He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in 

white ; 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of 

light. 
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what 

they say, 
For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

queen o' the May. 

They say he 's dying all for love — but that can 

never be ; 
They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is 

that to me ? 
There 's many a bolder lad '11 woo me any summer 

day; 
And I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

queen o' the May. 

Little EflBie shall go with me to-morrow to the 

green. 
And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made 

the queen ; 
For the shepherd lads on every side '11 come from 

far away ; 
And I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

queen o' the May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its 

wavy bowers. 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet 

cuckoo-flowers ; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in 

swamps and hollows gray ; 
And I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

queen o' the May. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the 

meadow-grass. 
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten 

as they pass ; 
There will not be a drop of rain tlie whole of the 

livelong day ; 
And I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

queen o' the May. 

All the valley, mother, '11 be fresh and green and 

still. 
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the 

hill. 



530 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



And the rivulet in the flowery dale '11 merrily 

glance and play, 
For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

queen o' the May. 

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, 
mother dear. 

To-morrow '11 be the happiest time of all the glad 
new-year : 

To-morrow '11 be of all the year the maddest, mer- 
riest day. 

For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
queen o' the May. 

new-year's eve. 

If you're waking, call me early, call me early, 

mother dear. 
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad nev/- 

year. 
It is the last new-year that I shall ever see — 
Then you may lay me low i' the mould, and think 

no more of me. 

To-night I saw the sun set — he set and left be- 
hind 

The good old year, the dear old time, and all my 
peace of mind ; 

And the new-year's coming up, mother ; but I shall 
never see 

The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the 
tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers ; we had a 

merry day — 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me 

queen of May ; 
And we danced about the May-pole and in the 

hazel copse, 
TiU Charles's Wain came out above the tall white 

chimney-tops. 

There 's not a flower on all the hills — the frost is 

on the pane ; • 

I only wish to live till the snowdrops come 

again. 
I wish the snow would melt, and the sun come out 

on high — 
j I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 



The building rook '11 caw from the windy tall elm- 
tree, 

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow 
lea, 

And the swallow '11 come back again with summer 
o'er the wave. 

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the moulder- 
ing grave. 

Upon the chancel-easement, and upon that grave 

of mine. 
In the early, early morning the summer sun '11 

shine. 
Before the red cock crows from the farm iipon the 

hill — 
When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the 

world is still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the 
waning light 

You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at 
night ; 

When from the dry dark wold the summer airs 
blow cool 

On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bul- 
rush in the pool. 

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the haw- 
thorn shade, 

And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am 
lowly laid. 

I shall not forget you, mother ; I shall hear you 
when you pass, 

With your feet above my head in the long and 
pleasant grass. 

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive 

me now ; 
You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek 

and brow ; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be 

wild; 
You should not fret for me, mother — you have 

another child. 

If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my 

resting-place ; 
Though you'll not see me, mother, I shaU look 

upon your face ; 



THE MAT QUEEN. 



531 



Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken 

what you say, 
And be often, often with you when you think I'm 

far away. 

Good-night ! good-night ! when I have said good- 
night for evermore. 

And you see me carried out from the threshold of 
the door, 

Don't let EfBe come to see me till my grave be 
growing green — 

She'll be a better child to you than ever I have 
been. 

She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary 
floor. 

Let her take 'em — they are hers; I shall never 
garden more. 

But teU her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush 
that I set 

About the parlor-window, and the box of migno- 
nette. 

Good-night, sweet mother ! Call me before the day 
is born. 

All night 1 lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 

But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new- 
year — 

So, if you 're waking, call me, call me early, mother 
dear. 

CONCLUSION. 

I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I 

am; 
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of 

the lamb. 
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the 

year ! 
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the 

violet's here. 

Oh sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the 

skies ; 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that 

cannot rise ; 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers 

that blow ; 
And sweeter far is death than life, to me that long 

to go. 



It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the 
blessed sun, 

And now it seems as hard to stay ; and yet. His 
will be done ! 

But still I think it can't be long before I find re- 
lease ; 

And that good man, the clergyman, has told me 
words of peace. 

Oh blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver 

hair ! 
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet 

me there ! 
Oh blessings on his kindly heart, and on his silver 

head ! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside 

my bed. 

He showed me all the mercy, for he taught me all 

the sin ; 
Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there 's One 

will let me in. 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that 

could be ; 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for 

me. 

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death- 
watch beat — 

There came a sweeter token when the night and 
morning meet ; 

But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand 
in mine, 

And Effie on the other side, and I wiU tell the 
sign. 

All in the wild March morning I heard the angels 

call — 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark 

was over all ; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to 

. roll, 
And in the wild March morning I heard them call 

my soul. 

For, lying broad awake, I thought of you and EfBe 

dear ; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer 

here ; 



532 P0E3IS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


With all my strength I prayed for both — and so 


Oh sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this 


I felt resigned, 


day is done 


And up the valley came a swell of music on the 


The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the 


wind. 


sun — 




For ever and for ever with those just souls and 


I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my 


true — 


bed; 


And what is life, that we should moan ? why make 


And then did something speak to me — I know 


we such ado ? 


not what was said ; 




For great delight and shuddering took hold of all 


For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home. 


my mind, 


And there to wait a little while till you and Efiie 


And up the valley came again the music on the 


come — 


wind. 


To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your 




breast — 


But you were sleeping ; and I said, " It 's not for 


And the wicked cease from troubling, and the 


them — it 's mine ; " 


weary are at rest. 


And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it 


Alfred Tennyson. 


for a sign. 




And once again it came, and close beside the win- 




dow-bars — 




Then seemed to go right up to heaven and die 


QTomms's JDcab. 


among the stars. 






You may give over plough, boys, 


So now I think my time is near ; I trust it is. I 


You may take the gear to the stead, 


know 


All the sweat o' your brow, boys, 


The blessed music went that way my soul will have 


Will never get beer and bread. 


to go. 


The seed 's waste, I know, boys. 


And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to- 


There 's not a blade will grow, boys, 


day; 


'Tis cropped out, I trow, boys, 


But EfiBe, you must comfort her when I am past 


And Tommy 's dead. 


away. 






Send the colt to fair, boys. 


And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to 


He 's going blind, as I said, 


fret ; 


My old eyes can't bear, boys. 


There's many worthier than I would make him 


To see him in the shed ; 


happy yet. 


The cow 's dry and spare, boys, 


If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been 


She 's neither here nor there, boys. 


his wife ; 


I doubt she 's badly bred ; 


But all these things have ceased to be, with my 


Stop the mill to-mom, boys, 


desire of life. 


There'U be no more com, boys, 




Neither white nor red ; 


Oh look ! the sun begins to rise ! the heavens are 


There 's no sign of grass, boys, 


in a glow ; 


You may sell the goat and the ass, boys, 


He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them 


The land 's not what it was, boys, 


I know. 


And the beasts must be fed : 


And there I move no longer now, and there his 


You may turn Peg away, boys. 


light may shine — 


You may pay off old Ned, 


"Wild flowers in the vaUey for other hands than 


We've had a dull day, boys, 


mine. 


And Tommy 's dead. 





T03IMY 


S DEAD. 533 




Move my chair on the floor, boys, 


And she 's gone before, boys. 




Let me turn my head : 


And Tommy 's dead. 




She 's standing there in the door, boys, 






Your sister Winifred ! 


She was always sweet, boys. 




Take her away from me, boys. 


Upon his curly head. 




Your sister Winifred ! 


She knew she'd never see 't, boys. 




Move me round in my place, boys. 


And she stole off to bed ; 




Let me turn my head. 


I've been sitting up alone, boys. 




Take her away from me, boys, 


For he'd come home, he said. 




As she lay on her death-bed, 


But it 's time I was gone, boys, 




The bones of her thin face, boys. 


For Tommy 's dead. 




As she lay on her death-bed ! 






I don't know how it be, boys. 


Put the shutters up, boys. 




When all 's done and said. 


Bring out the beer and bread. 




But I see her looking at me, boys. 


Make haste and sup, boys. 




Wherever I turn my head ; 


1 ' J ^ 

For my eyes are heavy as lead ; 




Out of the big oak-tree, boys. 
Out of the garden-bed, 


There 's something wrong i' the cup, boys. 
There 's something ill wi' the bread. 




And the lUy as pale as she, boys. 


I don't care to sup, boys, 




And the rose that used to be red. 


And Tommy 's dead. 




There 's something not right, boys. 
But I think it 's not in my head. 


I'm not right, I doubt, boys. 




I've kept my precious sight, boys — 
The Lord be hallowed ! 


I've such a sleepy head, 
I shall never more be stout, boys, 




Oustide and in 


You may carry me to bed. 




The ground is cold to my tread. 


What are you about, boys. 




The hQls are wizen and thin. 


The prayers are all said. 




The sky is shrivelled and shred. 


The fire 's raked out, boys. 


• 


The hedges down by the loan 
1 can count them bone by bone, 


And Tommy 's dead ? 




The leaves are open and spread. 


The stairs are too steep, boys. 




But I see the teeth of the land. 


You may carry me to the head, 




And hands like a dead man's hand. 


The night 's dark and deep, boys. 




And the eyes of a dead man's head. 


Your mother 's long in bed, 




There 's nothing but cinders and sand. 


'Tis time to go to sleep, boys. 




The rat and the mouse have fed, 


And Tommy 's dead. 




And the summer 's empty and cold ; 






Over valley and wold 


I'm not used to kiss, boys, 




Wherever I turn my head 


You may shake my hand instead. 




There 's a mildew and a mould, 


All things go amiss, boys. 




The sun 's going out overhead, . 


You may lay me where she is, boys. 




■ And I'm very old. 


And I'll rest my old head : 




And Tommy 's dead. 


'Tis a poor world, this, boys. 
And Tommy 's dead. 




What am I staying for, boys. 


Sydney Dobbll. 




You 're all born and bred. 






'Tis fifty years and more, boys. 






Since wife and I were wed. 





534 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


JElje 55'2tnpl) QTomploining for tl)e ?Dcotl) 


Had it lived long, I do not know 
Whether it, too, might have done so 


of l)cr -fomn. 


As Sylvio did — his gifts might be 


The wanton troopers, riding by, 


Perhaps as false, or more, than he. 


Have shot my fawn, and it will die. 


For I am sure, for aught that I 


Ungentle men ! they cannot thrive 


Could in so short a time espy. 


Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive, 


Thy love was far more better than 


Them any harm ; alas ! nor could 


The love of false and cruel man. 


Thy death yet do them any good. 


With sweetest milk, and sugar, first 


I'm sure I never wished them ill — 


I it at mine own fingers nursed ; 


Nor do 1 for all this, nor will ; 


And as it grew, so eveiy day 


But, if my simple prayers may yet 


It waxed more white and sweet than they. 


Prevail with Heaven to forget 


It had so sweet a breath ! and oft 


Thy murder, I will join my tears, 


I blushed to see its foot more soft 


Rather than fail. But, oh my fears ! 


And white — shall I say than my hand ? 


It cannot die so. Heaven's King 


Nay, any lady's of the land. 


Keeps register of every thing ; 


It is a wondrous thing how fleet 


And nothing may we use in vain ; 


'Twas on those little silver feet ! 


Even beasts must be with justice slain — 


With what a pretty, skipping grace 


Else men are made their deodands. 


It oft would challenge me the race ! 


Though they should wash their guilty hands 


And when 't had left me far away. 


In this warm life-blood, which doth part 


'Twould stay, and run again, and stay ; 


Prom thine and wound me to the heart. 


For it was nimbler, much, than hinds. 


Yet could they not be clean — their stain 


And trod as if on the four winds. 


Is dyed in such a purple grain ; 


I have a garden of my own — 


There is not such another in 


But so with roses overgrown. 


The world to offer for their sin. 


And lilies, that you would it guess 


Inconstant Sylvio ! when yet 


To be a little wilderness ; 


I had not found him counterfeit. 


And all the spring-time of the year 


One morning (I remember well). 


It only loved to be there. 


Tied in this silver chain and bell. 


Among the beds of lilies I 


Gave it to me ; nay, and I know 


Have sought it oft, where it should lie 


What he said then — I'm sure I do : 


Yet could not, till itself would rise, 


Said he, " Look how your huntsman here 


Find it, although before mine eyes ; 


Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer ! " 


For in the flaxen lilies' shade 


But Sylvio soon had me beguiled — 


It like a bank of lilies laid. 


This waxed tame, while he grew wild ; 


L^pon +he roses it would feed, 


And, quite regardless of my smart. 


Until its lips ev'n seemed to bleed ; 


Left me his fawn, but took his heart. 


And then to me 'twould boldly trip, 


Thenceforth, I set myself to play 


And print those roses on my lip. 


My solitary time away. 


But all its chief delight was still 


With this ; and, very well content, 


On roses thus itself to fill ; 


Could so mine idle life have spent. 


And its pure virgin limbs to fold 


For it was full of sport, and ligtit 


In whitest sheets of lilies cold. 


Of foot and heart, and did invite 


Had it lived long, it would have been 


Me to its game. It seemed to bless 


Lilies without, roses within. 


Itself in me ; how could I less 


Oh help ! oh help ! I see it faint, 


Than love it ? Oh I cannot be 


And die as calmly as a saint ! 


Unkind t' a beast that loveth me. 


See how it weeps ! the tears do come 



SHE WORE A WREATH OF ROSES. 535 




Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum. 


And standing by her side was one 




So weeps the wounded balsam ; so 


, Who strove, and not in vain. 




The holy frankincense doth flow ; 


To soothe her, leaving that dear home 




The brotherless Heliades 


She ne'er might view again. 




Melt in such amber tears as these. 


I saw her but a moment, 




I in a golden vial will 


Yet methinks I see her now, 




Keep these two crystal tears ; and fiU 


With the wreath of orange-blossoms 




It, till it do o'erflow, with mine ; 


Upon her snowy brow. 




Then place it in Diana's shrine. 






Now my sweet fawn is vanished to 


And once again I see that brow, 




Whither the swans and turtles go ; 


No bridal-wreath is there ; 




In fair Elysium to endure. 


The widow's sombre cap conceals 




With mUk-white lambs, and ermines pure. 


Her once luxuriant hair. 




Oh do not run too fast ! for I 


She weeps in silent solitude, 




Will but bespeak thy grave, and die. 


And there is no one near 




First my unhappy statue shall 


To press her hand within his own. 




Be cut in marble ; and withal, 


And wipe away the tear. 




Let it be weeping too ! But there 


I see her broken-hearted ; 




Th' engraver sure his art may spare, 


Yet methinks I see her now. 




For I so truly thee bemoan 


In the pride of youth and beauty. 




That I shall weep though I be stone ; 


With a garland on her brow. 




Until my tears, still drooping, wear 


Thomas Hatnbs Bayly. 




My breast, themselves engraving there, 






There at my feet shalt thou be laid, 






Of purest alabaster made ; 






For I would have thine image be 


%axatnx of, i\\t Jrisl) ©migrant. 




White as I can, though not as thee. 






Andrew Makveix. 


I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, 
Where we sat side by side 
On a bright May mornin' long ago, 




Qlie toore a tOreatl) of tJoses. 


When first you were my bride ; 
The corn was springhi' fresh and green. 




She wore a wreath of roses 


And the lark sang loud and high ; 




The night that first we met ; 


And the red was on your lip, Mary, 




Her lovely face was smiling 


And the love-light in your eye. 




Beneath her curls of jet. 






Her footstep had the lightness. 


The place is little changed, Mary ; 




Her voice the joyous tone, — 


The day is bright as then ; 




The tokens of a youthful heart, 


The lark's loud song is in my ear, 




Wliere sorrow is unknown. 


And the com is green again ; 




I saw her but a moment. 


But I miss the soft clasp of your hand. 




Yet methinks I see her now, 


And your breath, warm on my cheek ; 




With the wreath of summer flowers 


And I still keep list'nin' for the words 




Upon her snowy brow. 


You never more will speak. 




A wreath of orange-blossoms, 


'Tis but a step down yonder lane, 




When next we met, she wore ; 


And the little church stands near — 




The expression of her features 


The church where we were wed, Mary ; 


> 


Was more thoughtful than before ; 


I see the spire from here. 



536 POEIIS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, 




And my step might break your rest. 


QL\\t JSribge of Sigljs. 


For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, 




With your baby on your breast. 


" Drowned 1 Drowned ! "— Hamlet. 




One more unfortunate, 


I'm very lonely nx)w, Mary, 
For the poor make no new friends ; 


Weary of breath. 


But, oh ! they love the better still 
The few our Father sends ! 


Rashly importunate, 
Gone to her death ! 


And you were all I had, Mary, 


Take her up tenderly, 


My blessin' and my pride : 


Lift her with care ! 


There 's nothing left to care for now, 


Fashioned so slenderly — 


Since my poor Mary died. 


Young, and so fail- ! 


Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, 

That still kept hoping on. 
When the trust in God had left my soul. 


Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements, 
Whilst the wave constantly 


And my arm's young strength was gone ; 
There was comfort ever on your lip. 

And the kind look on your brow — 
I bless you, Mary, for that same. 


Drips from her clothing ; 
Take her up instantly, 
Loving, not loathing I 


Though you cannot hear me now. 


Touch her not scornfully ! 


I thank you for the patient smile 


Think of her mournfully, 


When your heart was fit to break. 


Gently and humanly — 


When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there, 


Not of the stains of her ; 


And you hid it for my sake ; 


All that remains of her 


I bless you for the pleasant word. 


Now is pure womanly. 


When your heart was sad and sore — 
Oh ! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, 
Where grief can't reach you more ! 


Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny. 
Rash and undutiful; 


I'm biddin' you a long farewell, 


Past all dishonor. 


My Mary, kind and true ! 


Death has left on her 


But I'll not forget you, darling, 


Only the beautiful. 


In the land I'm goin' to ; 




They say there 's bread and work for all, 


Still, for all slips of hers — 


And the sun shines always there, 


One of Eve's family — 


But I'll not forget old Ireland, 


Wipe those poor lips of hers. 


Were it fifty times as fair ! 


Oozing so clammily. 


And often in those grand old woods 


Loop up her tresses 


I'll sit, and shut my eyes. 


Escaped from the comb — 


And my heart will travel back again 


Her fair auburn tresses — 


To the place where Mary lies ; 


Whilst wonderment guesses 


And I'll think I see the little stile 


Where was her home ? 


Where we sat side by side. 




And the springin' corn, and the bright May 


Who was her father ? 


morn, 


Who was her mother ? 


When first you were my bride. 


Had she a sister ? 


Lady DurrBRiN. 


Had she a brother ? 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 537 


Or was there a dearer one 


Ere her limbs, frigidly, 


Still, and a nearer one 


Stiffen too rigidly, 


Yet, than all other ? 


Decently, kindly. 




Smooth and compose them ; 


Alas ! for the rarity 


And her eyes, close them. 


Of Christian charity 


Staring so blindly ! 


Under the sun ! 


Dreadfully staring 


Oh ! it was pitiful ! 


Through muddy impurity, 


Near a whole city full. 


As when with the daring 


Home she had none. 


Last look of despairing 




Fixed on futurity. 


Sisterly, brotherly, 


J 


Fatherly, motherly 


Perishing gloomily. 


Feelings had changed — 
Love, by harsh evidence. 


Spurred by contumely. 
Cold inhumanity, 


Thrown from its eminence ; 


Burning insanity, 


Even God's providence 


Into her rest ! 


Seeming estranged. 


Cross her hands humbly, 


Where the lamps quiver 
So far in the river, 


As if praying dumbly, 
Over her breast I 


With many a light 
From window and casement, 


Owning her weakness, 


From garret to basement. 


Her evil behavior, 


She stood, with amazement, 


And leaving, with meekness, 


Houseless by night. 


Her sins to her Saviour ! 


. 


Thomas Hood. 


The bleak wind of March 




Made her tremble and shiver ; 




But not the dark arch, 




Or the black flowing river ; 


@i:i)e iHotl)er's Cast Song. 


Mad from life's history. 




Glad to death's mystery, 


Sleep ! — The ghostly winds are blowing ! 


Swift to be hurled — 


No moon abroad, no star is glowing ; 


Anywhere, anywhere 


The river is deep, and the tide is flowing 


Out of the world ! 


To the land where you and I are going ! 




We are going afar. 


In she plunged boldly — 


Beyond moon or star. 


No matter how coldly 


To the land where the sinless angels are ! 


The rough river ran — 




Over the brink of it ! 


I lost my heart to your heartless sire. 


Picture it, think of it ! 


('Twas melted away by his looks of fire) 


Dissolute man ! 


Forgot my God, and my father's ire. 


Lave in it, drink of it, 


All for the sake of a man's desire ; 


Then, if you can ! 


But now we'll go 




Where the waters flow, 


Take her up tenderly — 


And make us a bed where none shall know. 


Lift her with care ! 




Fashioned so slenderly — 


The world is cruel — the world is untrue ; 


Young, and so fair ! 


Our foes are many, our friends are few ; 



538 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


No work, no bread, however we sue ! 


It seems so like my own _ 


What is there left for me to do, 


Because of the fasts I keep ; 


But fly— fly 


God ! that bread should be so dear, 


From the cruel sky, 


And flesh and blood so cheap ! 


And hide in the deepest deeps — and die ! 




Bakbt Cornwall. 


" Work — work — work ! 




My labor never flags ; 




And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, 


@;i)c Song of tl)e 01)irt. 


A crust of bread — and rags. 
That shattered roof — and this naked floor — 


With fingers weary and worn, 


A table — a broken chair — 


With eyelids heavy and red. 


And a wall so blank my shadow I thank 


A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 


For sometimes falling there ! 


Plying her needle and thread — 




Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 


" Work — work — work ! 


In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 


From weary chime to chime ! 


And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 


Work — work — work — 


She sang the " Song of the Shirt ! " 


As prisoners work for crime ! 




Band, and gusset, and seam. 


" Work ! work ! work ! 


Seam, and gusset, and band — 


While the cock is crowing aloof ! 


Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, 


And work — work — work. 


As well as the weary hand. 


Till the stars shine through the roof ! 




It's oh ! to be a slave 


" Work — work — work 


Along with the barbarous Turk, 


In the dull December light ! 


Where woman has never a soul to save. 


And work — work — work, 


If this is Christian work ! 


When the weather is warm and bright ! 




While underneath the eaves 


" Work — work — work 


The brooding swallows cling, 


Till the brain begins to swim ! 


As if to show me their sunny backs, 


Work — work — work 


And twit me with the Spring. 


Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 




Seam, and gusset, and band. 


" Oh ! but to breathe the breath 


Band, and gusset, and seam — 


Of the cowslip and primrose sweet. 


Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 


With the sky above my head. 


And sew them on in a dream ! 


And the grass beneath my feet ! 


" men with sisters dear ! 


For only one short hour 


men with mothers and wives,! 


To feel as I used to feel, 


It is not linen you 're wearing out, 


Before I knew the woes of want 


But human creatures' lives ! 


And the walk that costs a meal ! 


Stitch — stitch — stitch, 




In poverty, hunger, and dirt — 


" Oh ! but for one short hour — 


Sewing at once, with a double thread, 


A respite however brief ! 


A shroud as well as a shirt ! 


No blessed leisure for love or hope, 




But only time for grief ! 


"But why do I talk of death — 


A little weeping would ease my heart ; 


That phantom of grisly bone ? 


But in their briny bed 


I hardly fear his terrible shape, 


My tears must stop, for every drop 


It seems so like my own — 


Hinders needle and thread ! " 



THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. 



539 



With fingers weaiy and worn, 
With eyelids heavy and red, 
/A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
Plying her needle and thread — 

Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 
In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch — 
Would that its tone could reach the rich ! — 
She sang this " Song of the Shirt ! " 

Thomas Hood. 



Song of tl)e Silent Canb. 

Into the silent land ! 
Ah ! who shall lead us thither ? 
Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, 
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand : 
Who leads us with a gentle hand 
Thither, oh, thither ! 

Into the silent land ? 

Into the silent land ! 
To you, ye boundless regions 
Of all perfection ! Tender morning-visions 
Of beauteous souls ! The future's pledge and band ! 
Who in life's battle firm doth stand 
Shall bear hope's tender blossoms 

Into the silent land ! 

land ! land ! 
For aU the broken-hearted 
The mildest herald by our fate allotted 
Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 
To lead us with a gentle hand 
Into the land of the great departed — 

Into the silent land ! 

JoHANN Gaitdekz VON Saxis. (German.) 
Translation of H. W. Longfellow. 



®:i)e temper's s^ea\^-3th. 

Tread softly ! bow the head — 
In reverent silence bow ! 

No passing-bell doth toU ; 

Yet an immortal soul 
Is passing now. 



Stranger, however great. 

With lowly reverence bow ! 
There 's one in that poor shed — 
One by that paltry bed — 

Greater than thou. 

Beneath that beggar's roof, 
Lo ! Death doth keep his state ! 

Enter ! — no crowds attend — 

Enter ! — no guards defend 
This palace gate. 

That pavement damp and cold 

No smiling courtiers tread ; 
One silent woman stands, 
Lifting with meagre hands 

A dying head. 

No mingling voices sound — 

An infant wail alone ; 
A sob suppressed — again 
That short deep gasp — and then 

The parting groan ! 

Oh ! change — oh ! wondrous change ! 

Burst are the prison bars ! 
This moment there, so low, 
So agonized — and now 

Beyond the stars ! 

Oh ! change — stupendous change ! 

There lies the soulless clod ! 
The sun eternal breaks ; 
The new immortal wakes — 

Wakes with his God. 

Cakoline Bowles Southet. 



Wi\t Cast Jfourncg. 

Slowly, with measured tread. 
Onward we bear the dead 

To his lone home ; 
Short goes the homeward road - 
On with your mortal load ! — 

grave ! we come. 

Yet, yet — ah ! hasten not 
Past each remembered spot 



540 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


Where he hath been — 


Plaintive and low? 


"Where late he walked in glee, 


" thou, mine enemy ! 


These from henceforth to be 


Come forth and look on me. 


Never more seen ! 


Ere hence I go. 


Rest ye — set down the bier ! 


" Curse not thy foemen now — 


One he loved dwelleth here ; 


Mark ! on his pallid brow 


Let the dead lie 


Whose seal is set ! 


A moment that door beside, 


Pardoning I pass thy way ; 


Wont to fly open wide 


Then wage not war with clay — 


Ere he drew nigh. 


Pardon— forget!" 


Hearken! — he speaketh yett — 


Now ail his labor 's done ! 


" friend ! wilt thou forget 


Now, now the goal is won ! 


(Friend — more than brother!) 


grave, we come ! 


How hand in hand we've gone, 


Seal up the precious dust — 


Heart with heart linked in one — 


Land of the good and just, 


All to each other? 


Take the soul home ! 




Cakolinb Bowles Sotjthet. 


" friend ! I go from thee — 




Where the worm feasteth free, 




Darkly to dwell ; 


@:i)e IJaupcr's ^Brioe. 


Giv'st thou no parting kiss ? 




Friend ! is it come to this? 


There 's a grim one-horse hearse in a joUy round 


friend, farewell ! " 


trot — 




To the church-yard a pauper is going, I wot ; 


Uplift your load again ! 


The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs ; 


Take up the mourning strain — 


And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings : 


Pour the deep wail ! 


Rattle his hones over the stones ! 


Lo ! the expected one 


He 's only a pauper, whom nobody oicns ! 


To his place passeth on — 




Grave ! bid him hail ! 


Oh, where are the mourners? Alas! there are 




none — 


Yet, yet — ah ! slowly move — 


He has left not a gap in the world, now he 's gone — 


Bear not the form we love 


Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ; 


Fast from our sight — 


To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can ! 


Let the air breathe on him. 




And the sun beam on him 


What a Jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and 


Last looks of light. 


din! 




The whip how it cracks ! and the wheels, how they 


Here dwells his mortal foe ; 


spin ! 


Lay the departed low, 


How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is 


Even at his gate ! 


hurled! — 


Will the dead speak again -^ 


The pauper at length makes a noise in the world ! 


Utt'ring proud boasts, and vain 




Last words of hate ? 


Poor pauper defunct ! he has made some approach 




To gentility, now that he 's stretched in a coach ! 


Lo ! the cold lips unclose — 


He 's taking a drive in his carriage at last ; 


List ! list ! what sounds are those, 


But it will not be long if he goes on so fast. 



PEACE! WHAT DO TEARS AVAIL 9 541 


You bumpkins! who stare at your brother con- 


But when the sun, in all his state, 


veyed — 


Illumed the eastern skies, 


Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid ! 


She passed through glory's morning-gate, 


And be joyful to think, when by death you 're laid 


And walked in Paradise ! 


low, 


James Aldrich. 


You 've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go ! 




But a truce to this strain ; for my soul it is sad. 
To think that a heart in humanity clad 


l^tatel tDI)at bo ©care ^tiail? 


Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate 


Peace ! what do tears avail ? 


end, 


She lies aU dumb and pale, 


And depart from the light without leaving a 


And from her eye 


friend ! 


The spirit of lovely life is fading — 


Bear soft his bones over the stones ! 


And she must die ! 


Though a pauper, he 's one ivhom Ms Maker yet 


Why looks the lover wroth — the friend upbraid- 


owns. Thomas Noel. 


ing? 




Keply, reply ! 


Wc)t 5I)«atl)-jBcIr. 


Hath she not dwelt too long 
'Midst pain, and grief, and wrong ? 


We watched her breathing thro' the night. 

Her breathing soft and low. 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 


Then why not die f 
Why suffer again her doom of sorrow, 

And hopeless lie ? 
Why nurse the trembling dream until to-mor- 
row? 


So silently we seemed to speak, 


Reply, reply ! 


So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 
To eke her living out. 


Death ! Take her to thine arms, 
In all her stainless charms ! 
And with her fly 


Our very hopes belied our fears. 
Our fears our hopes belied — 
We thought her dying when she slept. 


To heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness. 

The angels lie ! 
Wilt bear her there, Death ! in all her white- 
ness? 

Eeply, reply ! 

Babbt Cokhwall. 


And sleeping when she died. 
For when the morn came, dim and sad. 


And chill with early showers, 




Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 


fester. 


Another morn than oui's. 


Thomas Hood. 


When maidens such as Hester die, 




Their place ye may not well supply, 




Though ye among a thousand try. 


a ?Deatl]-!3e&. 


With vain endeavor. 


Hee suffering ended with the day ; 


A month or more hath she been dead. 


Yet lived she at its close. 


Yet cannot I by force be led 


And breathed the long, long night away, 


To think upon the wormy bed 


In statue-like repose. 


And her, together. 



542 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



A springy motion in her gait, 
A rising step, did indicate 
Of pride and joy no common rate, 
Tliat flushed her spirit ; 

I know not by what name beside 
I shall it call — if 'twas not pride, 
It was a joy to that allied, 
She did inherit. 

Her parents held the Quaker rule, 
Which doth the human feeling cool ; 
But she was trained in Nature's school — 
Nature had blessed her. 

A waking eye, a prying mind, 
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ; 
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind — 
Ye could not Hester. 

My sprightly neighbor, gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore ! 
Shall we not meet, as heretofore. 
Some summer morning. 

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Hath struck a bliss upon the day — 
A bliss that would not go away — 
A sweet forewarning ? 

Chakles Lamb. 



Cgdlras. 

Tet once more, ye laurels, and once more 
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude 
And with forced fingers rude 
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear. 
Compels me to disturb your season due ; 
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime. 
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. 
Who would not sing for Lycidas f Jje knew 
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
He must not float upon his watery bier 
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind. 
Without the meed of some melodious tear. 
Begin then, sisters of the sacred well. 



That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring. 

Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. 

Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse ; 

So may some gentle muse 

With lucky words favor my destined urn, 

And as he passes turn. 

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud ; 

For we were nursed upon the self-same hill. 

Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. 

Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 

Under the opening eyelids of the morn, 

We drove a-field, and both together heard 

What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn. 

Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of 

night. 
Oft till the star that rose at evening bright 
Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering 

wheel. 
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute. 
Tempered to the oaten flute ; 
Kough satyrs danced, a.nd fauns with cloven heel 
From the glad song would not be absent long. 
And old Damjetas loved to hear our song. 

But oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone — 
Now thou art gone, and never must return ! 
Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves. 
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'er- 

grown. 
And all their echoes, mourn ; 
The willows, and the hazel copses green. 
Shall now no more be seen. 
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 
As killing as the canker to the rose. 
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze. 
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear. 
When flrst the white-thorn blows ; 
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 
Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless 

deep 
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? 
For neither were ye playing on the steep. 
Where your old bards, the famous druids, lie, 
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high. 
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream — 
Ay me ! I fondly dream. 
Had ye been there; for what could that have 

done? 
What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore. 
The muse herself for her enchanting son. 



Jl 



LYCIDAS. 



543 



Whom universal nature did lament, 
When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, 
His gory visage down the stream was sent, 
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore ? 

Alas ! what boots it with incessant care 
To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade. 
And strictly meditate the thankless muse ? 
Were it not better done, as others use, 
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 
Or with the tangles of Neaara's hair ? 
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth 

raise 
(That last infirmity of noble minds) 
To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; 
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find. 
And think to burst out into sudden blaze. 
Comes the blind fury with the abhorred shears. 
And slits the thin -spun life. But not the 

praise, 
PhcEbus replied, and touched my trembling ears ; 
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, 
Nor in the glistering foil 
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies ; 
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes 
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; 
As he pronounces lastly on each deed. 
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed. 

fountain Arethuse, and thou honored flood, 
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, 
That strain I heard was of a higher mood ; 
But now my oat proceeds, 
And listens to the herald of the sea 
That came in Neptune's plea ; 
He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, 
What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle 

swain ? 
And questioned every gust of rugged winds 
That blows from off each beaked promontory ; 
They knew not of his story ; 
And sage Hippotades their answer brings. 
That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed ; 
The air was calm, and on the level brine 
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. 
It was tliat fatal and perfidious bark, 
Built in th' eclipse, and rigged with curses dark. 
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow. 
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, 
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge. 



Like to that sanguine flower, inscribed with woe. 

Ah ! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge ? 

Last came, and last did go, 

The pilot of the Galilean Lake ; 

Two massy keys he bore of metals twain 

(The golden ojDes, the iron shuts amain) ; 

He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : 

How well could I have spared for thee, young 

swain, 
Enow of such as for their bellies' sake 
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold ? 
Of other care they little reckoning make, 
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast. 
And shove away the worthy bidden guest ; 
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how 

to hold 
A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least 
That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs ! 
What recks it them? what need they? they are 

sped; 
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs 
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw ; 
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed. 
But, swollen with wind and the rank mist they 

draw, 
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread ; 
Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw 
Daily devours apace, and nothing said ; 
But that two-handed engine at the door, 
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. 

Eeturn, Alpheus, the dread voice is jjast, 
That shrunk thy streams ; return, Sicilian muse, 
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
Their bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues. 
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks. 
On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks. 
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes. 
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers. 
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies. 
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, 
The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, 
The glowing violet. 

The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine. 
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head. 
And every flower that sad embroidery wears. 
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, 
And daffodillies fill their cups with tears. 



544 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



To strew the laureat hearse where Lyeid lies, 
For so to interpose a little ease, 
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. 
Ay me ! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 
Wash far away where'er thy bones are hurled, 
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide 
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ; 
Or whether thou to our moist vows denied, 
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old. 
Where the great vision of the guarded mount 
Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold ; 
Look homeward angel now, and melt with ruth ! 
And, ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth ! 
Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no 

more ! 
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead. 
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. 
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed. 
And yet anon repairs his drooping head, 
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky ; 
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high. 
Through the dear might of Him that walked the 

waves, 
Where, other groves and other streams along, 
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, 
In the blest kingdoms meek of Joy and love. 
There entertain him all the saints above. 
In solemn troops and sweet societies. 
That sing, and singing in their glory move. 
And wipe the tears forever from his eyes. 
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ; 
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore, 
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 

Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and 

rills, 
Wliile the still morn went out with sandals 

gray ; 
He touched the tender stops of various quiUs, 
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay. 
And now the sun had stretched out aj.1 the hills, 
And now was dropt into the western bay ; 
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue : 
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. 

John Milton. 



Jfu Bcntcttibrance of. tl]e i^on. CEinnarb 
earnest toiiikrs. 



A GRACE though melancholy, manly too, 
Moulded his being ; pensive, grave, serene, 
O'er his habitual bearing and his mien 
Unceasing pain, by patience tempered, threw 
A shade of sweet austerity. But seen 
In happier hours and by the friendly few, 
That curtain of the spirit was withdrawn, 
And fancy light and playful as a fawn. 
And reason imped with inquisition keen. 
Knowledge long sought with ardor ever new. 
And wit love-kindled, showed in colors true 
What genial joys with sufferings can consist. 
Then did aU sternness melt as melts a mist 
Touched by the brightness of the golden dawn. 
Aerial heights disclosing, valleys green. 
And sunlights thrown the woodland tufts between. 
And flowers and spangles of the dewy lawn. 



And even the stranger, though he saw not these, 
Saw what would not be willingly passed by. 
In his deportment, eren when cold and shy, 
Was seen a clear collectedness and ease, 
A simple grace and gentle dignity. 
That failed not at the first accost to please ; 
And as reserve relented by degrees. 
So winning was his aspect and address, 
His smile so rich in sad felicities. 
Accordant to a voice which charmed no less, 
That who but saw him once remembered long. 
And some in whom such images are strong 
Have hoarded the impression in their heart. 
Fancy's fond dreams and memory's joys among, 
Like some loved relic of romantic song, 
Or cherished masterpiece of ancient art. 



His life was private ; safely led, aloof 

From the loud world, — which yet he understood 

Largely and wisely, as no worldling could. 

For he by privilege of his nature proof 

Against false glittei', from beneath the roof 

Of privacy, as from a cave, surveyed 

With steadfast eye its flickering light and shade, 



ELEGtY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON. 



545 



And gently judged for evil and for good. 

But whilst he mixed not for his own behoof 

In public strife, his spirit glowed with zeal, 

Not shorn of action, for the public weal — 

For truth and justice as its warp and woof. 

For freedom as its signature and seal. 

His life thus sacred from the world, discharged 

From vain ambition and inordinate care. 

In virtue exercised, by reverence rare 

Lifted, and by humility enlarged. 

Became a temple and a place of prayer. 

In latter years he walked not singly there ; 

For one was with him, ready at all hours 

His griefs, his joys, his inmost thoughts to share. 

Who buoyantly his burthens helped to bear. 

And decked his altars daily with fresh flowers. 



But farther may we pass not ; for the ground 
Is holier than the muse herself may tread ; 
Nor would I it should echo to a sound 
Less solemn than the service for the dead. 
Mine is inferior matter — my own loss — 
The loss of dear delights for ever fled. 
Of reason's converse by afEeetion fed. 
Of wisdom, counsel, solace, that across 
Life's dreariest tracts a tender radiance shed. 
Friend of my youth ! though younger, yet my 

guide, 
How much by thy unerring insight clear 
I shaped my way of life for many a year. 
What thoughtful friendship on thy death-bed died ! 
Friend of my youth ! whilst thou wast by my side. 
Autumnal days still breathed a vernal breath ; 
How like a charm thy life to me supplied 
All waste and injury of time and tide. 
How like a disenchantment was thy death ! 

Henrt Tatlok. 



©legs on Captain iHattl^ctB j^enU^rson. 

Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 
The muekle devil wi' a woodie 
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie. 

O'er hurcheon hides. 
And like stoekiish come o'er his studdie 
Wi' thy auld sides ! 
J7 



He 's gane ! he 's gane ! he 's f rae us torn, 

The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 

Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exiled. 

Ye hiUs, near neebors o' the starns, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns. 

Where echo slumbers ! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numbers ! 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens I 
Ye hazelly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens, 

Wi' todlin' din. 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae linn to linn. 

Mourn, little harebells owre the lea ; 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, 

In scented bowers ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree, 

The first o' flowers. 

At dawn, when every grassy blade 

Droops with a diamond at his head. 

At even, when beans their fragrance shed 

I' th' rustling gale, 
Ye maukins, whiddin' through the glade, 

Come, join my wail ! 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather-bud ; 
Ye curlews calling through a elud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ; 

He 's gane for ever ! 

Mourn, sonty coots, and speckled teals ; 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Kair for his sake ! 

Mourn, clam'ring craiks, at close o' day, 
'Mang flelds o' flowering clover gay ! 



546 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


And -vvlien ye wing your annual way 


But by thy honest turf I '11 wait, 


Frae our eauld shore, 


Thou man of worth ! 


Tell thae far worlds wha lies in clay, 


And weep the ae best fellow's fate 


Wham we deplore. 


E'er lay in earth. 




KOBBRT BUKNS. 


Ye howlets, frae your ivy bower, 




In some auld tree, or eldritch tower, 




What time the moon, wi' silent glower, 




Sets up her horn, 


^ iFuneral f smn. 


Wail through the weary midnight hour 




TiU waukrife morn I 


Ye midnight shades, o'er nature spread ! 




Dumb silence of the dreary hour ! 


rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 


In honor of th' approaching dead, 


Oft have ye heard my cantie strains ; 


Around your awful terrors pour. 


But now, what else for me remains 


Yes, pour around, 


But tales of woe ; 


On this pale ground. 


And frae my een the drapping rains 


Through all this deep surrounding gloom, 


Maun ever flow ! 


The sober thought, 




The tear untaught. 


Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! 


Those meetest mourners at a tomb. 


Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear ; 




Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 


Lo ! as the surpliced train draw near 


Shoots up his head, 


To this last mansion of mankind, 


Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, 


The slow sad bell, the sable bier. 


For him that 's dead ! 


In holy musings wrap the mind ! 




And while their beam, 


Then autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 


With trembling stream. 


In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 


Attending tapers faintly dart, 


Thou, winter, hurling through the air 


Each mouldering bone, 


The roaring blast, 


Each sculptured stone. 


Wide o'er the naked world declare 


Strikes mute instruction to the heart 1 


The worth we've lost ! 






Now, let the sacred organ blow. 


Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light ! 


With solemn pause, and sounding slow ; 


Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 


Now, let the voice due measure keep. 


And you, ye twinkling starnies bright. 


In strains that sigh, and words that weep. 


My Matthew mourn ! 


Till all the vocal current blended roll. 


For through your orbs he 's taen his flight, 


Not to depress, but lift the soaring soul — 


Ne'er to return. 






To lift it to the Maker's praise. 


Henderson ! the man ! the brother ! 


Who first informed our frame with breath. 


And art thou gone, and gone for ever? 


And, after some few stormy days, 


And hast thou crossed that unknown river, 


Now, gracious, gives us o'er to death. 


Life's dreary bound ? 


No king of fears 


Like thee, where shall I find another, 


In him appears. 


The world around ? 


Who shuts the scene of human woes ; 




Beneath his shade 


Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great, 


Securely laid, 


In a' the tinsel trash o' state 1 


The dead alone find true repose. 



THE EXEQUY. 547 


Then, while we mingle dust with dust, 


But thou wilt nevermore appear 


To One, supremely good and wise, 


Folded within my hemisphere, 


E,aise hallelujahs ! God is just, 


Since both thy light and motion 


And man most happy when he dies ! 


Like a fled star is fallen and gone, 


His winter past. 


And 'twixt me and my soul's dear wish 


Fair spring at last 


The earth now interposed is, 


Receives him on her flowery shore, 


Which such a strange eclipse doth make 


Where pleasure's rose 


As ne'er was read in almanac. 


Immortal blows. 




And sin and sorrow are no more ! 


I could allow thee for a time 


David Mallett. 


To darken me, and my sad clime : 




Were it a month, or year, or ten, 




I would thy exile live till then. 




And aU that space my mirth adjourn. 


2i;i)e QExcquB- 


So thou wouldst promise to return, 




And, putting off thy ashy shroud, 


Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint, 


At length disperse this sable cloud. 


Instead of dirges, this complaint ; 




And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse 


But woe is me ! the longest date 


Receive a strew of weeping verse 


Too narrow is to calculate 


Prom thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st 


These empty hopes : never shall I 


see 


Be so much blest as to descry 


Quite melted into tears for thee. 


A glimpse of thee, till that day come 


. 


Which shall the earth to cinders doom, 


Dear loss ! since thy untimely fate. 


And a fierce fever must calcine 


My task hath been to meditate 


The body of this world like thine, 


On thee, on thee ; thou art the book. 


(My little world ! ) : that fit of fire 


The library whereon I look, 


Once off, our bodies shall aspire 


Though almost blind ; for thee (loved clay) 


To our souls' bliss : then we shall rise. 


I languish out, not live, the day. 


And view ourselves with clearer eyes 


Using no other exercise 


In that calm region where no night 


But what I practice with mine eyes ; 


Can hide us from each other's sight. 


By which wet glasses I find out 




How lazily Time creeps about 


Meantime thou hast her, Earth : much good 


To one that mourns : this, only this, 


May my harm do thee ! Since it stood 


My exercise and business is : 


With Heaven's will I might not call 


So I compute the weary hours 


Her longer mine, I give thee all 


With sighs dissolved into showers. 


My short-lived right and interest 




In her whom living I loved best. 


Nor wonder if my time go thus 


With a most free and bounteous grief 


Backward and most preposterous ; 


I give thee what I could not keep. 


Thou hast benighted me ; thy set 


Be kind to her, and, prithee, look 


This eve of blackness did beget, 


Thou write into thy doomsday book 


Who wast my day (though overcast 


Each parcel of this rarity 


Before thou hadst thy noontide passed), 


Which in thy casket shrined doth lie. 


And I remember must in tears 


See that thou make thy reckoning straight, 


Thou scarce hadst seen so many years 


And yield her back again by weight : 


As day tells hours : by thy clear sun 


For thou must audit on thy trust 


My love and fortune first did run : 


Each grain and atom of this dust. 



548 



POJSMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



As thou wilt answer Him that lent, 
Not gave thee, my dear monument. 
So close the ground, and 'bout her shade 
Black curtains draw : my bride is laid. 

Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed 
Never to be disquieted ! 
My last good-night ! Thou wilt not wake 
Tni I thy fate shall overtake : 
Till age or grief, or sickness must 
Marry my body to that dust 
It so much loves, and fiU the room 
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. 
Stay for me there : I will not fail 
To meet thee in that hollow vale. 
And think not much of my delay ; 
I am already on the way, 
And follow thee with all the speed 
Desire can make, or sorrows breed. 
Each minute is a short degree, 
And every hour a step towards thee. 
At night when I betake to rest. 
Next morn I rise nearer my west 
Of life, almost by eight hours' sail, 
Than when Sleep breathed his drowsy gale. 

Thus from the sun my bottom steers. 
And my day's compass downward bears : 
Nor labor I to stem the tide 
Through which to thee I swiftly glide. 

'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield ; 
Thou, like the van, first took'st the field. 
And gotten hast the victory, 
In thus adventuring to die 
Before me, whose more years might crave 
A just precedence in the grave. 
But hark ! my pulse, like a soft drum, 
Beats'my approach, tells thee I come ; 
And, slow howe'er my marches be, 
I shall at last sit down by thee. 

The thought of this bids me go on, 
And wait my dissolution ' 
With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive 
The crime), I am content to live, 
Divided, with but half a heart. 
Till we shall meet and never part. 

Henry KrNQ. 



(Sane were but tl)e tOinter Olaulir. 

Ganb were but the winter cauld, 
And gane were but the snaw, 

I could sleep in the wild woods, 
Where primroses blaw. 

Cauld 's the snaw at my head, 

And cauld at my feet, 
And the finger o' death 's at my een. 

Closing them to sleep. 

Let nane tell my father. 

Or my mither sae dear ; 
I'll meet them baith in heaven 

At the spring o' the year. 

Allan Cunningham. 



®1} ! £inatcl)cb atocis i"^ Btant^Q IBIooitt. 

Oh ! snatched away in beauty's bloom. 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
But on thy tui-f shall roses rear 
Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom. 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head. 

And feed deep thought with many a dream, 
And lingering pause and lightly tread — 
Fond wretch ! as if her step disturbed the dead. 

Away ! we know that tears are vain. 

That Death nor heeds nor hears distress : 

Will this unteach us to complain f 
Or make one mourner weep the less ? 

And thou, who tell'st me to forget. 

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 

LoKD Bykon. 



QToronacI). 

He is gone on the mountain. 
He is lost to the forest. 

Like a summer-dried fountain, 
When our need was the sorest. 



OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. 



549 



The font re-appearing 

From the rain-drops shall borrow ; 
But to us comes no cheering, 

To Duncan no morrow ! 

The hand of the reaper 

Takes the ears that are hoaiy, 
But the voice of the weeper 

Wails manhood in glory. 
The autumn winds rushing 

Waft the leaves that are searest, 
But our flower was in flushing, 

When blighting was nearest. 

Fleet foot on the correi. 

Sage counsel in cumber, 
Eed hand in the foray. 

How sound is thy slumber ! 
Like the dew on the mountain. 

Like the foam on the river, 
Like the bubble on the fountain, 

Thou art gone, and for ever. 

Sib Walter Scott. 



®1)! 3xtaX\)t not l)is IS^amz. 

Oh ! breathe not his name ! let it sleep in the shade. 
Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid ; 
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed. 
As the night-dew that falls on the grave o'er his head. 

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it 

weeps, 
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he 

sleeps ; 
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls. 
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. 

Thomas Mooke. 



% JUirgc. 

Now is done thy long day's work ; 
Fold thy palms across thy breast — 
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. 

Let them rave. 
Shadows of the silver birk 
Sweep the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Thee nor carketh care nor slander ; 
Nothing but the small cold worm 
Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 

Let them rave. 
Light and shadow ever wander 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed ; 
Chanteth not the brooding bee 
Sweeter tones than calumny ? 

Let them rave. 
Thou wilt never raise thine head 
From the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; 

The woodbine and eglatere 

Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. 

Let them rave. 
Rain makes music in the tree 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

Round thee blow, self-pleached deep, 
Bramble roses, faint and pale. 
And long purples of the dale. 

Let them rave. 
These in every shower creep 
Through the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

The gold-eyed kingcups fine, 
The frail bluebell peereth over 
Rare broid'ry of the purple clover. 

Let them rave. 
Kings have no such couch as thine. 
As the green that folds thy gr9,ve. 

Let them rave. 

Wild words wander here and there ; 
God's great gift of speech abused 
Makes thy memory confused — 

But let them rave. 
The balm-cricket carols clear 
In the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

Alfred Tenutson. 



550 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 




Thou, wonder of all maids, rest here — 


®l)e SDirge of Jtnogcn. 


Of daughters all, the deerest deere ; 




The eye of virgins ; nay, the queen 


Feak no more the heat o' the sun, 


Of this smooth green. 


Nor the furious winter's rages ; 


And all sweet meades from whence we get 


Thou thy worldly task hast done, 


The primrose and the violet. 


Home art gone and ta'en thy wages : 




Golden lads and girls all must 


Too soone, too deere, did Jephthah buy, 


As chimney-sweepers come to dust. 


By thy sad losse. our liberty ; 


Fear no more the frown o' the great — 


His was the bond and cov'nant, yet 


Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 
Care no more to clothe and eat ; 


Thou paid'st the debt ; 


Lamented maid ! he won the day. 


To thee the reed is as the oak. 


But for the conquest thou didst pay. 


The sceptre, learning, physic, must 




All follow this, and come to dust. 


Thy father brought with him along 




The olive-branch, and victor's song ; 


Pear no more the lightning-flash, 


He slew the Ammonites, we know — 


Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; 


But to thy woe ; 


Fear not slander, censure rash ; 


And in the purchase of our peace 


Thou hast finished Joy and moan : 


The cure was worse than the disease. 


All lovers young, all lovei-s must 




Consign to thee, and come to dust. 


For which obedient zeale of thine 




We offer here, before thy shrine. 


No esorciser harm thee ! 


Our sighs for storax, teares for wine ; 


Nor no witchcraft charm thee ! 


And, to make fine 


Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! 


And fresh thy herse-cloth, we will here 


Nothing ill come near thee ! 


Four times bestrew thee every yeere. 


Quiet consummation have ; 




And renowned be thy grave ! 


Receive, for this thy praise, our tears ; 


WnLiAM Shakespeare. 


Receive this offering of our haires ; 




Receive these ehristall vials, filled 




With tears distilled 


HJirge of Scpl^tbali's lUatiglitcr. 


From teeming eyes ; to these we bring, 




Each maid, her silver filleting. 


SUNG BY THE VIRGINS. 




THOU, the wonder of all dayes ! 


To guild thy tombe : besides, these caules, 


paragon, and pearl of praise ! 


These laces, ribbands, and these faules — 


virgin-martyr, ever blest 


These veiles, wherewith we use to hide 


Above the rest 


The bashfull bride. 


Of all the maiden traine ! We come, 


When we conduct her to her groome ; 


And bring fresh strewings to thy tombe. 


All, all we lay upon thy tombe. 


Thus, thus, and thus we compasse round 


No more, no more, since thou art dead, 


Thy harmlesse and unhaunted 'ground ; 


Shall we e'er bring coy brides to bed ; 


And as we sing thy dirge, we will 


No more, at yeerly festivalls, 


The daffodill. 


We cowslip balls. 


And other flowers, lay upon 


Or chaines of columbines, shall make 


The altar of our love, thy stone. 


For this or that occasion's sake. 



I 



DIRGE. 551 


No, no ! our maiden pleasures be 


And set it round with celandine. 


Wrapt in the winding-sheet with thee ; 


And nodding heads of columbine ! 


'Tis we are dead, though not i' th' graye ; 


WeHl set it round with celandine, 


Or if we have 


And nodding heads of columbine ! 


One seed of life left, 'tis to keep 
A Lent for thee, to fast and weep. 


And let the ruddock build his nest 
Just above my true-love's breast ! 


Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 


Tlie ruddock he shall build his nest 


And make this place all paradise ; 


Just above thy true-lovers breast ! 


May sweets grow here, and smoke from hence 

Fat frankincense ; 
Let balme and cassia send their scent 
From out thy maiden monument. 


And warble his sweet wintry song 
O'er our dwelling all day long ! 
And he shall warble his sweet song 
O'er you/r dwelling all day long. 


May no wolfe howle, or screech-owle stir 

A wing about thy sepulchre ; 

No boysterous winds or storms come hither, 

To starve or wither 
Thy soft sweet earth ; but, like a spring, 


Now, tender friends, my garments take. 
And lay me out for Jesus' sake ! 
And we will now thy garments take. 
And lay thee out for Jesus' sake ! 


Love keep it ever flourishing. 


And lay me by my true-love's side. 


May all shie maids, at wonted hours, 

Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers ; 

May virgins, when they come to mourn. 


That I may be a faithful bride ! 

We'll lay thee by thy true-love's side. 
That thou may'st be a faithful bride ! 


Male incense burn 


When I am dead, and buried be. 


Upon thine altar ; then return. 


Pray to God in heaven for me ! 


And leave thee sleeping in thy urn. 


Now thou art dead, we'll bury thee, 


KOBBKT HeKEICK. 


And pray to God in heaven for thee ! 




Benedicite ! 




"William Stahlbt Eoscoe. 


JDirge. 




Oh dig a grave, and dig it deep, 
Where I and my true-love may sleep ! 


?Dirge in QTsntbeline, 


We'll dig a grave, and dig it deep, 
Where thou and thy true-love shall sleep ! 


SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, 
SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD. 


And let it be five fathom low, 


To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 


Where winter winds may never blow ! 


Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 


And it shall be five fathoms low, 


Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, 


Where winter winds shall never blow ! 


And rifle aU the breathing spring. 


And let it be on yonder hill. 


No waUing ghost shall dare appear, 


Wliere grows the mountain daffodil ! 


To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ; 


And it shall be on yonder hill. 


But shepherd lads assemble here. 


Where grows the mountain daffodil I 


And melting virgins own their love. 


And plant it round with holy briers. 


No withered witch shall here be seen — 


To fright away the fairy fires ! 


No goblins lead their nightly crew ; 


We'll plant it round with holy briers, 


The female fays shall haunt the green, 


To fright away the fairy fires ! 


And dress thy grave with pearly dew. 



553 P0E3IS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


The redbreast oft, at evening hours, 




Shall kindly lend his little aid, 


^Dirge. 


With hoary moss, and gathered flowers. 




To deck the ground where thou art laid. 


If thou wilt ease thine heart 
Of love, and all its smart — 


When howling winds and beating rain 


Then sleep, dear, sleep ! 


In tempests shake the sylvan cell, 


And not a sorrow 


Or 'midst the chase, on every plain. 


Hang any tear on your eyelashes ; 


The tender thought on thee shall dwell. 


Lie still and deep, 




Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes 


Each lonely scene shall thee restore. 


The rim o' the sun to-morrow, 


For thee the tear be duly shed ; 


In eastern sky. 


Beloved till life can charm no more. 




And mourned till pity's self be dead. 


But wilt thou cure thine heart 


WiLiJAM Collins. 


Of love, and all its smart — 




Then die, dear, die ! 




'Tis deeper, sweeter. 


Srilral Song anir lUirge. 


Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming 
With folded eye ; 


A CYPRESS-BOUGH and a rose-wreath sweet. 


And then alone, amid the beaming 


A wedding-robe and a winding-sheet, 


Of love's stars, thou 'It meet her 


A bridal-bed and a bier ! 


In eastern sky. 


Thine be the kisses, maid. 
And smiling love's alarms ; 


Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 


And thou, pale youth, be laid 




In the gi-ave's cold arms : 




Each in his own charms — 

Death and Hymen both are here. 


SDirge. 


So up with scythe and torch. 


Softly ! 


And to the old church porch. 


She is lying 


While all the bells ring clear ; 


With her lips apart. 


And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom, 


Softly ! 


And earthy, earthy heap up the tomb. 


She is dying of a broken heart. 


Now tremble dimples on your cheek — 


Whisper ! 


Sweet be your lips to taste and speak. 


She is going 


For he who kisses is near : 


To her final rest. 


By her the bridegod fair, 


Whisper ! 


In youthful power and force ; 


Life is growing 


By him the grizard bare, 


Dim within her breast. 


Pale knight on a pale horse, 




To woo him to a corse — 


Gently! 
She is sleeping. 


Death and Hymen both are here. 


So up with scythe and torch. 
And to the old church porch. 


She has breathed her last. 
Gently ! 
While you are weeping, 
She to heaven has past ! 

Chables Gamage Eastman. 


While all the bells ring clear ; 
And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom. 
And earthy, earthy heap up the tomb. 

Thomas Lovell Bbddoes. 



A BRIDAL DIRGE. 553 




Plays the soft wind ? 


Dirge for a f oung (Siri. 


Yet still, from where she lies, 




Should blessed breathings rise, 


Underneath the sod low-lying, 


Gracious and kind. 


Dark and drear, 




Sleepeth one who left, in dying. 
Sorrow here. 


Therefore let song and dew 
Thence in the heart renew 


Yes, they 're ever bending o'er her 


Life's vernal glow I 


Eyes that weep ; 


And o'er that holy earth 


Forms, that to the cold grave bore her, 


Scents of the violet's birth 


Vigils keep. 


StiU come and go ! 


When the summer moon is shining 


Oh, then, where wild-flowers wave. 


Soft and fair. 


Make ye her mossy grave 


Friends she loved in tears are twining 


In the free air ! 


Chaplets there. 


Where shower and singing-bird 




'Midst the young leaves are heard — 


Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit. 


There, lay her there ! 


Throned above ; 


Felicia Dobothea Hemans. 


Souls like thine with God inherit 




Life and love ! 




James Thomas Fields. 






% Briiral JDirgc. 


mirge. 


Weave no more the marriage chain ! 


All unmated is the lover ; 


Where shall we make her grave ? 


Death has ta'en the place of pain ; 


Oh, where the wild-flowers wave 


Love doth call on love in vain ; 


In the free air ! 


Life and years of hope are over ! 


When shower and singing bird 




'Midst the young leaves are heard — 


No more want of marriage bell ! 


There — lay her there ! 


No more need of bridal favor ! 




Where is she to wear them well ? 


Harsh was the world to her — 


You beside the lover, tell ! 


Now may sleep minister 


Gone — with all the love he gave her! 


Balm for each ill ; 




Low on sweet natiire's breast 


Paler than the stone she lies — 


Let the meek heart find rest, 


Colder than the winter's morning ; 


Deep, deep and still ! 


Wherefore did she thus despise 




(She with pity in her eyes) 


Murmur, glad waters, by I 


Mother's care, and lover's warning ! 


Faint gales, with happy sigh. 




Come wandering o'er 


Youth and beauty — shall they not 


That green and mossy bed. 


Last beyond a brief to-morrow ? 


Where, on a gentle head. 
Storms beat no more ! 


No — a prayer and then forgot ! 
This the truest lover's lot. 


What though for her in vain 


This the sum of human sorrow ! 


Falls now the bright spring-rain. 


Barrt Cornwall. 



554 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 




She tarries long : but lo ! a whisper 


Slje J)l)antom. 


Beyond the open door, 




And, gliding through the quiet sunshine, 


Again I sit within the mansion, 


A shadow on the floor ! 


In the old, familiar seat ; 




And shade and sunshine chase each other 


Ah ! 'tis the whispering pine that calls me. 


O'er the carpet at my feet. 


The vine whose shadow strays ; 




And my patient heart must still await her. 


But the sweet-brier's arms have wrestled up- 


Nor chide her long delays. 


wards 
In the summers that are past, 


But my heart grows sick with weary waiting. 


And the willow trails its branches lower 


As many a time before : 




Her foot is ever at the threshold, 


Than when I saw them last. 






Yet never passes o'er. 




Bayard Tatlok. 


They strive to shut the sunshine wholly 




From out the haunted room — 




To fill the house, that once was joyful, 
With silence and with gloom. 


(gpitapl) on (Eli^obetl) £. §. 




WouLDST thou heare what man can say 


And many kind, remembered faces 


In a little? — reader, stay ! 


Within the doorway come — 


Underneath this stone doth lye 


Voices that wake the sweeter music 


As much beauty as could dye ; 


Of one that now is dumb. 


Which in life did harbor give 




To more vertue than doth live. 


They sing, in tones as glad as ever, 


If at all she had a fault, 


The songs she loved to hear ; 


Leave it buried in this vault. 


They braid the rose in summer garlands. 


One name was Elizabeth — 


Whose flowers to her were dear. 


Th' other, let it sleep with death : 




Fitter, where it dyed to tell, 


And still her footsteps in the passage. 


Than that it lived at all. Farewell ! 


Her blushes at the door, 


Bbn Jonson. 


Her timid words of maiden welcome, 




Come back to me once more. 






Jcljabob. 


And all forgetful of my sorrow. 




Unmindful of my pain, 


So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdrawn 


I think she has but newly left me. 


Which once he wore ! 


And soon will come again. 


The glory from his gray hairs gone 




For evermore ! 


She stays without, perchance, a moment, 


Revile him not — the tempter hath 


To dress her dark-brown hair ; 


A siTifiTP fnv Jill T 


1 hear the rustle of her garments. 


X\ BllOilC l.\JL Uili . 

And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, 


Her light step on the stair ! 

1 


Befit his fall ! 


iluttering heart ! control thy tumult. 


Oh ! dumb is passion's stormy rage. 


Lest eyes profane should see 


When he who might 


My cheeks betray the rush of rapture 


Have lighted up and led his age, 


Her coming brings to me ! 


Falls back in night. 



THE LOST LEADER. 



555 



Scorn ! Would the angels laugh, to mark 

A bright soul driven, 
Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, 

Prom hope and heaven? 

Let not the land, once proud of him. 

Insult him now ; 
Nor brand with deeper shame his dim. 

Dishonored brow. 

But let its humbled sons, instead. 

From sea to lake, 
A long lament, as for the dead, 

In sadness make. 

Of all we loved and honored, naught 

Save power remains — 
A fallen angel's pride of thought. 

Still strong in chains. 

All else is gone ; from those great eyes 

The soul has fled : 
When faith is lost, when honor dies, 

The man is dead ! 

Then pay the reverence of old days 

To his dead fame ; 
Walk backward, with averted gaze, • 

And hide the shame ! 

John Greenleap Whittiek. 



®l)c Cost tzabn. 

Just for a handful of silver he left us ; 

Just for a riband to stick in his coat — 
Found the one gift of which Fortune bereft us, 

Lost all the others she lets us devote. 
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, 

So much was theirs who so little allowed. 
How all our copper had gone for his service ! 

Rags — were they purple, his heart had been 
proud ! 

We that had loved him so, followed him, honored 
him, 
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, 
Learned his great language, caught his clear ac- 
cents, 
Made him our pattern to live and to die ! 



Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us. 
Bums, Shelley, were with us — they watch from 
their graves ! 

He alone breaks from the van and the freemen ; 
He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! 

We shall march prospering — not through his pres- 
ence; 
Songs may inspirit us — not from his lyre; 
Deeds will be done — while he boasts his quies- 
cence. 
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade as- 
pire. 
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, 
One task more declined, one more footpath un- 
trod. 
One more triumph for devils, and sorrow for 
angels. 
One wrong more to man, one more insult to 
God! 

Life's night begins; let him never come back to 
us! 
There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain. 
Forced praise on oiu' part — the glimmer of twi- 
light. 
Never glad, confident morning again ! 
Best fight on well, for we taught him — strike gal- 
lantly. 
Aim at our heart ere we pierce through his 
own; 
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait 
us. 
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne ! 

KoBEKT Browning. 



|)ronIr ittaisic is in tl)e \Siodh. 

Proud Maisie is in the wood, 

Walking so early ; 
Sweet robin sits on the bush, 

Singing so rarely. 

" Tell me, thou bonny bird. 
When shall I marry met" 

— " When six braw gentlemen 
Kirkward shall carry ye." 



556 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


" Who makes the bridal bed, 


And now the chilling, freezing air 


Birdie, say truly ? " 


Without blew long and loud ; 


— " The gray-headed sexton 


Upon our knees we breathed one prayer. 


That delves the grave duly. 


Where he slept in his shroud. 


" The glow-worm o'er grave and stone 


We laid the broken marble floor, — 


Shall light thee steady ; 


No name, no trace appears ! 


The owl from the steeple sing 


And when we closed the sounding door. 


Welcome, proud lady ! " 


We thought of him with tears. 


Sir Walter Scott. 


William Lisle Bowles. 


©n tl)C iFutieral of (t\)ax\tQ i\\t jTirst, 


Wi\z !3urial of Sir lo\\n Moon. 


AT NIGHT IX ST. GEOEGE'S CHAPEL, WINDSOR. 


Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 


The castle clock had tolled midnight. 


Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 


With mattock and with spade — 


O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 


And silent, by the torches' light — 
His corse in earth we laid. 


We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
The sods with our bayonets turning, 


The coffin bore his name ; that those 


By the struggling moonbeam's misty light. 


Of other years might know. 


And the lantern dimly burning. 


When earth its secrets should disclose. 
Whose bones were laid below. 


No useless coffin inclosed his breast, 
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; 


" Peace to the dead ! " no children sung, 


But he lay like a warrior taking his rest. 


Slow pacing up the nave ; 


With his martial cloak around him ! 


No prayers were read, no knell was rung. 
As deep we dug his grave. 


Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 


We only heard the winter's wind. 


But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was 


In many a sullen gust, 


dead, 


As o'er the open grave inclined, 


And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 


We murmured, " Dust to dust ! " 






We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed. 


A moonbeam from the arch's height 


And smoothed down his lonely pillow. 


Streamed, as we placed the stone ; 


That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er 


The long aisles started into light, 


his head. 


And all the windows shone. 


And we far away on the billow ! 


We thought we saw the banners then 


Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone. 


That shook along the walls, 


And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — 


Whilst the sad shades of mailed men 


But little he'll reek, if they let him sleep on 


Were gazing on the stalls. < 


In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 


'Tis gone ! — Again on tombs defaced 


But half of our heavy task was done, 


Sits darkness more profound ; 


When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 


And only by the torch we traced 


And we heard the distant and random gun. 


The shadows on the ground. 


That the foe was suUenly firing. 



ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE THE THIRD. 



557 



Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory, 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone — 
But we left him alone with his glory. 

Charles Wolfe. 



ODn tl)C HDcatl) of ©uorge tlje ®l)irir. 

WRITTEN UNDER WINDSOR TERRACE. 

I SAW him last on this terrace proud, 

Walking in health and gladness. 
Begirt with his court ; and in all the crowd 

Not a single look of sadness. 

Bright was the sun, the leaves were green — 

Blithely the birds were singing ; 
The cymbals replied to the tambourine, 

And the bells were merrily ringing. 

I have stood with the crowd beside his bier, 

Wlien not a word was spoken — 
When every eye was dim with a tear, 

And the silence by sobs was broken. 

I have heard the earth on his coffin pour, 
To the muffled drums' deep rolling, 

Wliile the minute-gun, with its solemn roar. 
Drowned the death-bells' tolling. 

The time — since he walked in his glory thus. 
To the grave till I saw him carried — 

Was an age of the mightiest change to us, 
But to him a night unvaried. 

A daughter beloved, a queen, a son. 
And a son's sole child, have perished ; 

And sad was each heart, save only the one 
By which they were fondest cherished : 

For his eyes were sealed and his mind was dark, 
And he sat in his age's lateness — 

Like a vision throned, as a solemn mark 
Of the frailty of human greatness ; 

His silver beard, o'er a bosom spread 

Unvexed by life's commotion. 
Like a yearly lengthening snow-drift shed 

On the calm of a frozen ocean. 



Still o'er him oblivion's waters lay, 

Though the stream of life kept flowing ; 

When they spoke of our king, 'twas but to say 
The old man's strength was going. 

At intervals thus the waves disgorge, 

By weakness rent asunder, 
A piece of the wreck of the Royal George, 

To the people's pity and wonder. 

He is gone at length, he is laid in the dust, 
Death's hand his slumbers breaking ; 

For the coffined sleep of the good and just 
Is a sure and blissful waking. 

His people's heart is his funeral urn ; 

And should sculptured stone be denied him, 
There will his name be found, when in turn 

We lay our heads beside him, 

HoEACE Smith. 



®l)e toarlrcn of l\\z Cflinque JJorts. 

A MIST was driving down the British Channel ; 

The day was just begun ; 
And through the window-panes, on floor and panel. 

Streamed the red autumn sun. 

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon. 

And the white sails of ships; 
And from the frowning rampart the black cannon 

Hailed it with feverish lips. 

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and 
Dover 

Were all alert that day. 
To see the French war-steamers speeding over 

"When the fog cleared away. 

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, 

Their cannon, through the night, 
Holding their breath, had watched in grim defiance 

The sea-coast opposite. 

And now they roared, at drum-beat, from their 
stations 

On every citadel ; 
Each answering each, with morning salutations. 

That all was well ! 



558 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



And down the coast, all taking up the burden, 

Replied the distant forts — 
As if to summon from his sleep the warden 

And lord of the Cinque Ports. 

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure. 

No drum-beat from the wall. 
No morning gun from the black forts' embrasure, 

Awaken with their call ! 

No more, surveying with an eye impartial 

The long line of the coast, 
Shall the gaunt figure of the old field-marshal 

Be seen upon his post ! 

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior. 

In sombre harness mailed, 
Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, 

The rampart wall has scaled ! 

He passed into the chamber of the sleeper — 

The dark and silent room ; 
And, as he entered, darker grew, and deeper. 

The silence and the gloom. 

He did not pause to parley, or dissemble, 

But smote the warden hoar — 
Ah ! what a blow ! — that made all England tremble 

And groan from shore to shore. 

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, 

The sun rose bright o'erhead — 
Nothing in nature's aspect intimated 

That a great man was dead ! 

Hbnkt Wadsworth Longfellow. 



SDirge for a Solbier. 

IN MEMORY OF GENERAL PHILIP KEARNY, KILLED 
SEPTEMBER 1, 1863. 

Close his eyes ; his work is done I 

What to him is friend or foeman. 
Rise of moon, or set of sun, 

Hand of man, or kiss of woman ? 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he f he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 



As man may, he fought his fight. 

Proved his truth by his endeavor ; 
Let him sleep in solemn night, 
Sleep for ever and for ever ; 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

Fold him in his country's stars, 

Roll the drum and fire the volley ! 
What to him- are all our wars. 
What but death-bemocking folly ? 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow I 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

Leave him to God's watching eye, 

Trust him to the hand that made him. 
Mortal love weeps idly by : 
God alone has power to aid him. 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

George Henbt Boker. 



So tl)e iHetnorg of 3;i)omas f oob. 

Take back into thy bosom. Earth, 

This joyous, May-eyed morrow, 
The gentlest child that ever Mirth 

Gave to be reared by Sorrow ! 
'Tis hard — while rays half green, half gold, 

Through vernal bowers are burning. 
And streams their diamond-mirrors hold 

To summer's face returning — 
To say we're thankful that his sleep 

Shall never more be lighter, 
In whose sweet-tongued companionship 

Stream, bower, and beam grew brighter ! 

But all the more intensely true 
His soul gave out each feature 

Of elemental love — each hue 
And grace of golden nature — 



1 



TO TEE MEMORY 


OF TEOMAS EOOD. 559 


The deeper still beneath it all 


With sadness to subdue the soul, 


Lurked the keen jags of anguish ; 


Or thrill it with the tragic. 


The more the laurels clasped his brow 


Now listening Aram's fearful dream. 


Their poison made it languish. 


We see beneath the willow 


Seemed it that like the nightingale 


That dreadful thing, or watch him steal. 


Of his own mournful singing, 


Guilt-lighted, to his pillow. 


The tenderer would his song prevail 


Now with thee roaming ancient groves. 


While most the thorn was stinging. 


We watch the woodman felling 




The funeral elm, while through its boughs 


So never to the desert-worn 


The ghostly wind comes knelling. 


Did fount bring freshness deeper, 




Than that his placid rest this morn 


Dear worshipper of Dian's face 


Has brought the shrouded sleeper. 


In solitary places. 


That rest may lap his weary head 


Shalt thou no more steal, as of yore. 


Where charnels choke the city, 


To meet her white embraces ? 


Or where, mid woodlands, by his bed 


Is there no purple in the rose 


The wren shall wake its ditty ; 


Henceforward to thy senses ? 


But near or far, while evening's star 


For thee have dawn and daylight's close 


Is dear to hearts regretting. 


Lost their sweet influences ? 


Around that spot admiring thought 


No ! — by the mental night untamed 


Shall hover, unforgetting. 


Thou took'st to death's dark portal, 




The joy of the wide universe 


And if this sentient, seething world 
Is after all, ideal 


Is now to thee immortal ! 


Or in the immaterial furled 


How fierce contrasts the city's roar 


Alone resides the real, 


With thy new -conquered quiet ! — 


Freed one ! there 's a wail for thee this hour 


This stunning hell of wheels that pour 


Through thy loved elves' dominions ; 


With princes to their riot ! 


Hushed is each tiny trumpet-flower. 


Loud clash the crowds — the btisy clouds 


And droopeth Ariel's pinions ; 


With thunder-noise are shaken. 


Even Puck, dejected, leaves his swing. 


While pale, and mute, and cold, afar 


To plan, with fond endeavor. 


Thou liest, men-forsaken. 


What pretty buds and dews shall keep 


Hot life reeks on, nor recks that one 


Thy pillow bright for ever. 


— The playful, human-hearted — 




Who lent its clay less earthiness, 


And higher, if less happy, tribes — 


Is just from earth departed. 


The race of early childhood — 


Baktholombw Simmons. 


Shall miss thy whims of frolic wit, 




That in the summer wild-wood. 




Or by the Christmas hearth, were hailed. 




And hoarded as a treasure 


®n tl)e JDcatl) of SosepI) Hodman 


Of undecaying merriment 


JDrake. 


And ever-changing pleasure. 




Things from thy lavish humor flung 


" The good die first, 
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust 


Profuse as scents, are flying 


Burn to the socket."— Worbs worth. 


This kindling morn when blooms are born 




As fast as blooms are dying. 


Green be the turf above thee, 




Friend of my better days ! 


Sublimer art owned thy control — 


None knew thee but to love thee, 


The minstrel's mightiest magic, 


Nor named thee but to praise. 



560 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


Tears fell, when thou wert dying, 


And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms 


From eyes unused to weep ; 


twining, 


And long where thou art lying 


Burst through that clay — 


Will tears the cold turf steep. 


Will there be one still on that spot repining 




Lost hopes all day? 


When hearts whose truth was proven, 




Like thine, are laid in earth. 


When the night shadows, with the ample sweeping 


There should a wreath be woven. 


Of her dark paU, 


To tell the world their worth ; 


The world and all its manifold creation sleeping — 




The great and small — 


And I, who woke each morrow 


Will there be one, even at that dread hour, weeping 


To clasp thy hand in mine, 


For me— for all? 


Who shared thy joy and sorrow. 




Whose weal and woe were thine, — 


When no star twinldes with its eye of glory 




On that low mound. 


It should be mine to braid it 


And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary 


Around thy faded brow ; 


Its loneness crowned, 


But I've in vain essayed it, 


Will there be then one versed in misery's story 


And feel I cannot now. 


Pacing it round ? 


While memory bids me weep thee. 


It may be so — but this is selfish sorrow 


Nor thoughts nor words are free ; 


To ask such meed — 


The grief is fixed too deeply 


A weakness and a wickedness, to borrow 


That mourns a man like thee. 


From hearts that bleed 


Pitz-Gkeene Halleck. 


The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow 




Shall never need. 


t!DI)cn I beneall) l\)t (Holir, ^tb ®atrtl) 


Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling. 
Thou gentle heart ! 


am Sleeping. 


And, though tliy bosom should with grief be 




swelling, 


When I beneath the cold, red earth am sleeping. 


Let no tear start ; 


Life's fever o'er, 


It were in vain — for time hath long been knell- 


Will there for me be any bright eye weeping 


ing— 


That I'm no more ? 


Sad one, depart ! 


Will there be any heart still memory keeping 


William Motherwdll. 


Of heretofore! 




When the great winds through leafless forests 




rushing. 


% foet's (£^3itapl). 


Like full hearts break — 




When the swoll'n streams, o'er crag and gully 


Stop, mortal ! Here thy brother lies — 


gushing, 


The poet of the poor. 


Sad music make — » 


His books were rivers, woods, and skies. 


Will there be one, whose heart despair is crushing. 


The meadow and the moor ; 


Mourn for my sake ? 


His teachers were the torn heart's wail, 




The tyrant and the slave, 


When the bright sun upon that spot is shining 


The street, the factory, the jail, 


With purest ray, 


The palace — and the grave ! 



il 



OYER THE RANGE. 



561 



Sin met thy brother everywhere ! 

And is tliy brother blamed ? 
From passion, danger, doubt, and care. 

He no exemption claimed. 
The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, 

He feared to scorn or hate ; 
But, honoring in a peasant's form 

The equal of the great, 
He blessed the steward, whose wealth makes 

The poor man's little, more ; 
Yet loathed the haughty wretch that takes 

From plundered labor's store. 
A hand to do, a head to plan, 

A heart to feel and dare — 
Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man 

Who drew them as they are. 

Ebbnbzer Elliott. 



HALF-SLEEpmG, by the fire I sit, 

I start and wake, it is so strange 
To find myself alone, and Tom 

Across the Range. 

We brought him in with heavy feet 
And eased him down ; from eye to eye, 

Though no one spoke, there passed a fear 
That Tom must die. 

He rallied when the sun was low, 

And spoke ; I thought the words were strange : 
" It 's almost night, and I must go 

Across the Range." 

" Wliat, Tom ? " He smiled and nodded : " Yes, 
They 've struck it rich there, Jim, you know. 

The parson told us ; you'll come soon : 
Now Tom must go." 

I brought his sweetheart's pictured face : 
Again that smile, so sad and strange. 

" Tell her," said he, " that Tom has gone 
Across the Range." 

The last night lingered on the hill. 

" There 's a pass, somewhere," then he said. 
And lip, and eye, and hand were still ; 

And Tom was dead. 



JS 



Half-sleeping, by the fire I sit : 
I start and wake, it is so strange 

To find myself alone, and Tom 
Across the Range. 



J. Harbison Mills. 



Solitu&e. 

It is not that my lot is low 
That makes this silent tear to flow ; 
It is not grief that bids me moan ; 
It is that I am all alone. 

In woods and glens I love to roam. 
When the tired hedger hies him home ; 
Or by the woodland pool to rest, 
When pale the star looks on its breast. 

Yet when the silent evening sighs 
With hollowed airs and symphonies, 
My spirit takes another tone. 
And sighs that it is all alone. 

The autumn leaf is sere and dead — 
It floats upon the water's bed ; 
I would not be a leaf, to die 
Without recording sorrow's sigh ! 

The woods and winds, with sullen wail. 
Tell all the same unvaried tale ; 
I've none to smile when I am free. 
And when I sigh to sigh with me. 

Yet in my dreams a form I view, 
That thinks on me, and loves me too ; 
I start, and when the vision 's flown, 
I weep that I am all alone. 

Henet Kerkb White. 



% Catnent. 

Swifter far than summer's flight. 
Swifter far than youth's delight, 
Swifter far than happy night, 

Art thou come and gone ; 
As the earth when leaves are dead. 
As the night when sleep is sped, 
As the heart when joy is fled, 

I am left alone, alone. 



563 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


The swallow, summer, comes again ; 




The owlet, night, resumes her reign ; 


^xtavxAardi. 


But the wild swan, youth, is fain 




To fly with thee, false as thou. 


Where sunless rivers weep 


My heart each day desires the morrow ; 


Then- waves into the deep. 


Sleep itself is turned to sorrow ; 


She sleeps a charmed sleep : 


Vainly would my winter borrow 


Awake her not. 


Sunny leaves from any bough. 


Led by a single star, 




She came from very far, 


Lilies for a bridal bed, 


To seek where shadows are 


Roses for a matron's head, 


Her pleasant lot. 


Violets for a maiden dead — 




Pansies let my flowers be ; 


She left the rosy morn. 


On the living grave I bear, 


She left the fields of com, 


Scatter them without a tear. 


For twilight cold and lorn 


Let no friend, however dear, 


And water-springs. 


Waste one hope, one fear for me. 


Through sleep, as through a veil. 


Percy Btsshe Shelley. 


She sees the sky look pale. 




And hears the nightingale 




That sadly sings. 


2i;i)e Voiceless. 


Eest, rest, a perfect rest • 


We count the broken lyres that rest 

Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, 
But o'er their silent sister's breast 


Shed over brow and breast ; 
Her face is toward the west, 

The purple land. 
She cannot see the grain 


The wild flowers who will stoop to number ? 


A few can touch the magic string. 

And noisy fame is proud to win them ; 
Alas for those that never sing. 


Ripening on hill and plain ; 
She cannot feel the rain 
Upon her hand. 


But die with all their music in them ! 






Rest, rest, for evermore 


Nay, grieve not for the dead alone. 


Upon a mossy shore ; 


Whose song has told their hearts' sad story : 


Rest, rest at the heart's core 


Weep for the voiceless, who have known 


Till time shall cease : 


The cross without the crown of glory ! 


Sleep that no pain shall wake. 


Not where Leucadian breezes sweep 


Night that no morn shall break, 


O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow. 


Till joy shall overtake 


But where the glistening night-dews weep 


Her perfect peace. 


On nameless son'ow's church-yard pillow. 


Christina Gabriella Kossetti. 


hearts that break, and give no sign. 




Save whitening lip and fading tresses. 




Till Death pours out his cordial wine. 


a Catnent. 


Slow-dropped from Misery's ci;ushing presses ! 




If singing breath or echoing chord 


WORLD ! life ! time ! 


To eveiy hidden pang were given. 


On whose last steps 1 climb. 


What endless melodies were poured, 


Trembling at that where I had stood before. 


As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven ! 


When will return the glory of your prime ? 


Oliveb Wendell Holmes. 


No more — oh, nevermore! 



MOTHER AND POET. 



563 



Out of the day and night 
A joy has taken flight ; 

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar 
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight 

No more — oh, nevermore ! 

Perot Btsshe Shellet. 



QTljc (SLasiU bg tlic Sea. 

" Hast thou seen that lordly castle, 

That castle by the sea ? 
Golden and red, above it 

The clouds float gorgeously, 

"And fain it would stoop downward 

To the mirrored wave below ; 
And fain it would soar upward 

In the evening's crimson glow." 

" Well have I seen that castle, 

That castle by the sea. 
And the moon above it standing. 

And the mist rise solemnly." 

" The winds and waves of ocean, 

Had they a merry chime ? 
Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers, 

The harp and the minstrel's rhyme ? " 

" The winds and the waves of ocean, 

They rested quietly ; 
But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, 

And tears came to mine eye." 

" And sawest thou on the turrets 

The king and his royal bride? 
And the wave of their crimson mantles ? 

And the golden crown of pride ? 

" Led they not forth, in rapture, 

A beauteous maiden there — 
Resplendent as the morning sun, 

Beaming with golden hair?" 

" Well saw I the ancient parents, 

Without the crown of pride ; 
They were moving slow, in weeds of woe ; 
No maiden was by their side ! " 

LtTDWiG TJhland. (German.) 
Translation of Henrt W. Longfellow. 



iHlotl)cr anb |poct. 

TURIN, AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA, 1861. 

Dead ! one of them shot by the sea in the east. 
And one of them shot in the west by the sea. 

Dead ! both my boys ! When you sit at the feast 
And are wanting a great song for Italy free. 
Let none look at me ! 

Yet I was a poetess only last year. 
And good at my art, for a woman, men said. 

But this woman, this, who is agonized here, 
The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head 
For ever instead. 

What art can a woman be good at ? oh, vain ! 

What art is she good at, but hurting her breast 
With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the 
pain? 
Ah, boys, how you hurt ! you were strong as you 
pressed. 

And I proud by that test. 

What art 's for a woman ! To hold on her knees 
Both darlings ! to feel all their arms round her 
throat 
Cling, struggle a little ! to sew by degrees 
And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little 
coat ! 

To dream and to dote. 

To teach them. . . It stings there. I made them 
indeed 
Speak plain the word " country," I taught them 
no doubt 
That a country 's a thing men should die for at 
need. 
I prated of Liberty, rights, and about 
The tyrant turned out. 

And when their eyes flashed. . . my beautiful 
eyes ! . . 
I exulted ! nay, let them go forth at the wheels 
Of the guns, and denied not. But then the sur- 
prise, 
When one sits quite alone ! Then one weeps, 
then one kneels ! 

God ! how the house feels ! 



564 



P0E3IS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled 
With my kisses, of camp-life, and glory, and 
how 
They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be 
spoiled, 
In return would fan off every fly from my brow 
With their green laurel-bough. 

There was triumph at Turin. "Ancona was 
free ! " 
And some one came out of the cheers in the 
street 
With a face pale as stone, to say something to 
me. 
— My Guido was dead ! — I fell down at his feet, 
While they cheered in the street. 

I bore it; friends soothed me: my grief looked 
sublime 
As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained 
To be leant on and walked with, recalling the 
time 
When the first grew immortal, while both of us 
strained 

To the height he had gained. 

And letters still came, — shorter, sadder, more 
strong, 
Writ now taut in one hand. " I was not to faint. 
One loved me for two . . . would be with me ere 
long : 
And ' viva Italia ' he died for, our saint, 
Who forbids our complaint." 

My Nanni would add " he was safe, and aware 
Of a presence that turned ofE the balls . . . was 
imprest 
It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear. 
And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossessed, 
To live on for the rest." 

On which, without pause, up the telegraph line 
Swept smoothly the next news 'from Gaeta: — 
" Shot. 
Tell his mother." Ah, ah, " his," " their " mother ; 
not " mine." 
No voice says " my mother " again to me. What ! 
You think Guido forgot ? 



Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heav- 
en, 
They drop earth's affections, conceive not of 
woe? 
I think not. Themselves were too lately for- 
given 
Through that love and sorrow which reconciled so 
The above and below. 

Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through 
the dark 
To the face of thy mother ! consider, I pray, 
How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, 
Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes 
turned away. 

And no last word to say ! 

Both boys dead ! but that 's out of nature ; 
we all 
Have been patriots, yet each house must always 
keep one. 
'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall. 
And when Italy's made, for what end is it 
done. 

If we have not a son ? 

Ah, ah, ah ! when Gaeta 's taken, what then ? 
When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her 
sport 
Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of 
menf 
When your guns of Cavalli with final retort 
Have cut the game short. 

When Venice and Eome keep their new jubilee. 
When your flag takes all heaven for its white, 
green, and red, 
When you have your country from mountain to 
sea, 
When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, 
(And I have my dead,) 

What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your 
bells low. 
And burn your lights faintly! My country is 
there. 
Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow. 
My Italy 's there, — with my brave civic pair, 
To disfranchise despair. 



1 



THE FISHING SONG. 565 


Forgive me. Some women bear children in 


Yet the soul hath life diviner ; 


strength, 


Its past returns no more. 


And bite back the cry of their pain in seLf- 


But in echoes, that answer the minor 


scorn, 


Of the boat-song, from the shore. 


But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at 




length 


And the ways of God are darkness ; 


Into wail such as this ! — and we sit on forlorn 


His judgment waiteth long ; 


When the man-child is born. 


He breaks the heart of a woman 




"With a fisherman's careless song. 


Dead ! one of them shot by the sea in the east, 


EosE Terry Cooke. 


And one of them shot in the west by the sea ! 




Both ! both my boys ! If in keeping the feast 




You want a great song for your Italy free, 




Let none look at me ! 


@:i)« ®lir iHirror. 


Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 






Oft I see at twilight, 




In the hollow gloom 




Of the dim old mirror 


©lie £\B\\in% Song. 


Phantasmal faces loom ; 


Down in the wide, gray river 


Noble antique faces 


The current is sweeping strong ; 


Sad as with the weight 


Over the wide, gray river 


Of some ancient sorrow, 


Floats the fisherman's song. 


Some ancestral fate : 


The oar-stroke times the singing. 


Little rose-lipped faces. 


The song falls with the oar ; 


Locks of golden shine, 


And an echo in both is ringing, 


Laughing eyes of childhood 


I thought to hear no more. 


Looking into mine : 


Out of a deeper current 


Sweet auroral faces. 


The song brings back to me 


Like the morning's bloom ; 


A cry from mortal silence, 


Ah, how long and long ago. 


Of mortal agony. 


Shrouded for the tomb ! 


Life that was spent and vanished. 


In a bridal chamber 


Love that had died of wrong. 


Once the mirror hung, 


Hearts that are dead in living, 


Draperies of Indian looms 


Come back in the fisherman's song. 


Over it were flung. 


I see the maples leafing, 


From its gilded sconces, 


Just as they leafed before ; 


Fretted now with mould, 


The green grass comes no greener 


Waxen tapers glimmered 


Down to the very shore — 


On carcanets of gold. 


With the rude strain swelling, sinking. 


Perfumes of the summer night 


In the cadence of days gone by. 


Were through the lattice blown, 


As the oar, from the water drinking. 


Scents of brier-roses 


Ripples the mirrored sky. 


And meadows newly mown. 



566 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



The mirror, then, looked eastward 
And caught the morning's bloom, 

And flooded with its rosy gold 
The dream-light of the room. 

To-night 'tis looking westward 

Toward the sunset wall : 
The wintry day is waning, 

The dead leaves drift and fall. 

All about the hearth-stone 

The whitening ashes blow, 
The wind is wailing an old song 

Heard long and long ago. 

Like the dead leaves drifting 

Through the wintry air, 
Like white ashes sifting 

O'er the hearth-stone bare, 

Sad ancestral faces, 

Wan as moonlit snow. 
Haunt the dim old mirror 

That knew them long ago. 

Sakah Helen Whitman. 



J3reak, Srcak, 33reok. 

Break, break, break. 

On thy cold gray stones, sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

Oh well for the fisherman's boy 

That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

Oh well for the sailor lad 
That he sings in his boat on the bay 1 



And the stately ships go on. 

To their haven under the hill ; 
But oh for the touch of a vanished hand, 

And the sound of a voice that Ls still ! 

Break, break, break 

At the foot of thy crags, sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 

Alfred Tenntson. 



Qi;i)e JDofis tl}at ore no more. 

Tears, idle tears ! I know not what they mean. 
Tears, from the depth of some divine despair. 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy autumn fields. 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail 
That brings our friends up from the under-world ; 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with aU we love below the verge : 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half -awakened birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square : 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remembered kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, 
death in life ! the days that are no more. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



A 



PAET Till. 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION 



I KNOW more than Apollo ; 
For oft, when he lies sleeping, 
I behold the stars 
At mortal ware, 
And the rounded welkin weeping. 
The moon embraces her shepherd ; 
And the queen of love her warrior ; 
'while the first doth horn 
The stars of the mom, 
And the next the heavenly farrier. 

With a host of furious fancies, 
Whereof I am commander — 
With a burning spear, 
And a horse of air. 
To the wilderness I wander ; 
With a knight of ghosts and shadows, 
I summoned am to tourney, 
Ten leagues beyond 
The wide world's end — 
Methinks it is no journey I 

Tom o' Bedlam. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



King ^rtliur's JDeatl). 

On Trinitye Mondaye in the morne, 
This sore battayle was doom'd to be, 

Wlier manye a knighte cry'd, Well-awaye ! — 
Alaeke, it was the more pittie. 

Ere the first crowinge of the cocke, 
Whenas the kinge in his bed laye, 

He thoughte Sir G-awaine to him came, 
And there to him these wordes did saye : 

" Nowe, as you are mine uncle deare. 
And as you prize your life, this daye, 

Oh meet not with your foe in fighte ; 
Putt ofE the battayle, if yee maye ! 

" For Sir Launcelot is nowe in Fraunce, 
And with him many an hardye knighte, 

Who will within this moneth be backe, 
And will assiste yee in the fighte." 

The kinge then called his nobles all. 

Before the breakinge of the daye, 
And tolde them howe Sir Gawaine came. 

And there to him these wordes did saye. 

His nobles all this counsayle gave : 

That, earlye in the morning, hee 
Shold send awaye an herauld at armes, 

To aske a parley faire and free. 

Then twelve good knightes King Arthur chose. 
The best of all that with him were, 

To parley with the foe in field, 
And make with him agreement faire. 



The king he charged all his hoste 

In readinesse there for to bee ; 
But noe man sholde noe weapon sturre, 

Unless a sword drawne they sholde see. 

And Mordred, on the other parte. 

Twelve of his knights did likewise brings 

The beste of all his eompanye. 

To holde the parley with the kinge. 

Sir Mordred alsoe charged his hoste 

In readiness there for to bee ; 
But noe man sholde noe weapon sturre. 

But if a sworde drawne they sholde see. 

For he durste not his uncle truste, 

Nor he his nephewe, sothe to tell ; 
Alaeke ! it was a woefulle ease. 

As ere in Christen tie bef elle. 

But when they were together mette. 
And both to faire accordance broughte. 

And a month's league betweene them sette, 
Before the battayle sholde be f oughte, 

An addere crepte forthe of a bushe, 

Stunge one o' the king's knightes on the knee ; 
Alaeke ! it was a woefulle chance, 

As ever was in Christentie. 

When the knighte found him wounded sore, 
And sawe the wild-worme hanginge there, 

His sworde he from his seabberde drewe — 
A piteous case, as ye shall heare. 



570 



FOEUS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



For when the two hostes sawe the sworde, 
They joyned battayle instantlye 

Till of so manye noble knightes 

On one side there were left but three. 

For all were slaine that durst abide, 
And but some fewe that fled awaye ; 

Ah mee ! it was a bloodye fielde, 

As ere was foughte on summer's daye. 

Upon King Arthur's own partye 

Onlye himselfe escaped there, 
And Lukyn, duke of Gloster, free — 

And the king's butler, Bedevere. 

And when the king beheld his knightes 
AU dead and scattered on the molde, 

Tlie teares fast trickled downe his face — 
That manlye face in fight so bolde. 

" Nowe reste yee all, brave knights," he said - 
" Soe true and faithful to your trust ! 

And must yee then, yee valiant hearts, 
Be lefte to moulder into dust ? 

" Most loyal have yee been to mee, 
Most true and faithful unto deathe ; 

And, oh ! to rayse yee up againe. 

How freelye could I yield my breathe ! 

" But see, the traitor 's yet alive ! 

Lo where hee stalkes among the deade ! 
Nowe bitterlye he shall abye. 

And vengeance fall upon his head." 

" Oh staye, my liege ! " then sayd the duke ; 

" Oh staye for love and charitie ! 
Remember what the vision spake. 

Nor meete your foe, if it may bee." 

" Oh staye mee not, thou worthye wight ! 

This debt my loyal knights I owe ; 
Betide me life, betide me death, 

I will avenge them of their foe." ♦ 

Then straite he grasped his trusty speare. 
And on his horse then mounted hee : 

As his butler holpe him to his horse 
His bowels gushed to his knee. 



" Alas ! " then sayd the noble king, 
" That I should live this sight to see ! — 

To see this good knight here be slaine, 
All for his love in helping mee ! " 

He put his speare into his reste, 
And to Sir Mordred loud gan crye : 

" Nowe sette thyself upon thy guarde ! 
For, traitor, nowe thy death is nye ! " 

Sir Mordred lifted up his sworde. 
And fierce to meet the king ran hee. 

The king his speare he through him thrust — 
A fathom thorow his bodie. 

When Mordred felt the stroke of death. 
And found that he was wounded soe, 

He thruste himselfe upon the speare. 
And strucke the king a deadly e bio we. 

Then grimmlye dyed Sir Mordered, 

Presentlye upon that tree ; 
And bloody streames ranne from the kinge. 

Ere to the duke returned hee. 

Sir Lukyn then he thus bespake : 

" Sir knighte, thou hast been faithfully tryde ; 
Nowe take my sword Excalibar, 

That hangs so freelye by my syde — 

" Oh take my sworde Excalibar, 

And there into the river throwe ; 
For here, henceforth, benethe this tree. 

All use of weapons I foregoe. 

"And fare iv. a -Cj^^H, thou trustye sword ! 

A better neer-L.d valiant knighte; 
With thee full ofte, and many a daye. 

Have I withstood my foe in flghte. 

" With this good fauchion in my hande, 
Oft have I reapd the bloody feelde ; 

But nowe the fatalle houre is come. 
That never more I may thee weelde." 

The duke to the river side he went. 
And there his owne sword in threwe he ; 

But he kept back Excalibar — 
He kept it back in privitie. 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 571 


For all of coleyne was the blade, 


But to what place he cold not tell, 


And all the hilte of precious stone : 


For never after hee did him see ; 


" And ever alacke ! " then sayd the knighte, 


But hee sawe a barge goe from the land, 


" Must such a sword awaye be throwne ? " 


And hee heard ladyes howle and crye. 


Then backe he came unto the kinge, 


And whetlier the kinge were there or not, 


Who sayd, " Sir Lukyn, what did yee see ? " 


Hee never knewe, nor ever colde ; ■ 


" Nothing, my liege, save that the winde 


For from that sad and direfulle daye 


Blewe oer the waters faire and free." 


Hee never more was seene on molde. 




Anonymous. 


" Oh goe againe," then said the kinge, 




" good Syr Lukyn, goe againe ! 




Into the rivere throwe my sword. 
Nor keepe me lingering here in paine." 


MoxU b'artl)ur. 




So all day long the noise of battle rolled 


The duke then to the river went. 


Among the mountains by the winter sea ; 


And the king's scabbard in threwe hee ; 


Until King Arthur's table, man by man. 


But hee kept backe Excalibar, 


Had fallen in Lyonness about their lord. 


And hid it undernethe a tree. 


King Arthur : then, because his wound was deep, 




The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 


Then backe he came to tell the kinge, 


Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights. 


"Who sayde, " Sir Lukyn, sawe ye oughte?" 


And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 


" Nothinge, my liege, save that the winde 


A broken chancel with a broken cross, 


Nowe with the angrye waters fought." 


That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 




On one side lay the ocean, and on one 


" Lukyn, Lukyn," said the kinge. 


Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 


" Twice haste thou dealt deceytfullye ! 


Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 


Alacke ! whom may wee ever truste. 


" The sequel of to-day unsolders all 


When suche a knighte soe false can bee 1 


The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 




Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 


" Saye, wouldst thou have thy master dead, 


They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we 


All for a sword that wins thine eye ? 


Shall never more, at any future time. 


Now goe againe, and throwe it in, 


Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds. 


Or here the one of us shall dye." 


Walking about the gardens and the halls 




Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 


The duke, all shent with this ^ 'bul^K,' 


I perish by tliis people which I made — 


No aunswere made unto t!" kinge 


Though Merlin sware that I should come again 


But to the rivere tooke the sworde. 


To rule once more — but let what will be, be. 


And threwe it as far as he coulde fiinge. 


I am so deeply smitten through the helm 




That without help I cannot last till morn. 


A hande and an arme did meete the sworde. 


Then, therefore, take my brand Excalibur, 


And flourished three times in the air ; 


Which was my pride : for thou rememberest how 


Then sunke benethe the renninge streme. 


In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 


And of the duke was seene noe mair. 


Rose up from out the bosom of the lake. 




Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 


All sore astonied stood the duke — 


Holding the sword — and how I rowed across 


He stood as still as still mote bee ; 


And took it, and have Worn it, like a king : 


Then hastend backe to tell the kinge — 


And, wheresoever I am sung or told 


But he was gone from under the tree. 


In after-time, this also shall be known : 



573 



POEMS OF TEE IMAGINATION. 



But now delay not : take Excalibur, 

And fling him far into the middle meer : 

Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word." 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus. 
Aidless, alone, and smitten through the helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." 

So saying, from the ruined shrine he stept. 
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs. 
Where lay Vhe mighty bones of ancient men. 
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down 
By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon. 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt : 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood 
This way and that dividing the swift mind, 
In act to throw ; but a,t the last it seemed 
Better to leave Excalibur concealed 
There in the many-knotted water-flags, 
That whistled stifE and dry about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivei-e : 
" Hast thou performed my mission which 1 gave ? 
"What is it thou hast seen f or what hast heard ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" I heard the ripple washing in the reeds. 
And the wild water lapping on the crag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale : 
" Thou hast beti'ayed thy nature and thy name. 
Not rendering true answer, as beseemed 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign had followed, either hand 
Or voice, or else a motion of the meer. 
This is a shameful thing, for men to lie. . 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 
I bade, thee, watch, and lightly bring me word." 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the meer, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought ; 



But when he saw the wonder of the hilt. 
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud : 

" And if indeed I cast the brand away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, 
Should thus be lost forever from the earth, 
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. 
What good should follow this, if this were done? 
What harm, undone ? deep harm to disobey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself ? 
The King is sick, and knows not what he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to after-time, but empty breath 
And rumors of a doubt ? but were this kept, 
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, 
Some one might show it at a joust of arms. 
Saying, ' King Artliur's sword, Excalibur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the after-time 
To all tlie people, winning reverence. 
But now much honor and much fame were lost." 

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, 
And hid Excalibur the second time, 
And so strode back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily : 
" "What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast 
heard?" 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" 1 heard the water lapping on the crag. 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath : 
" Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
TJnknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king. 
Laid widowed of the power in his eye 
That bowed the will. I see thee what thou art. 
For thou, the latest left of all my knights, 
In whom should meet the offices of all. 
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence ; 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my hands." 



i 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 



573 



Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, 
And leaping down the ridges lightlj^, plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutched the sword. 
And strongly wheeled and threw it. The great 

brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon. 
And flashing round and round, and whirled in an 

arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn. 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So flashed and fell the brand Excalibur : 
But ere he dipped the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandished him 
Three times, and drew him under in the meer. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath : 
" Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, or 
seen ? " 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw. 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, 
Not though I live three lives of mortal men. 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him ; 
But when I looked again, behold an arm, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
That caught him by the hilt, and brandished him 
Three times, and drew him under in the meer." 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard : 
" My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that I were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight. 
And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 
So saying, from the pavement he half rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded through his tears. 
And would have spoken, but he found not words. 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, 
And rising bore him through the place of tombs. 

But as he walked. King Arthur panted hard. 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
Wlien all the house is mute. So sighed the King. 



Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, 

quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge. 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walked, 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. 
Dry clashed his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and right 
The bare black cliff clanged round him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Tiien saw they how there hove a dusky barge. 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern. 
Beneath them ; and descending they were ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold — and from them 

rose 
A cry that shivered to the tingling stars. 
And, as it were, one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 
Then murmured Arthur, " Place me in the barge," 
And to the barge they came. There those three 

Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. 
But she that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, 
And loosed the shattered casque, and chafed his 

hands. 
And called him by his name, complaining loud. 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white 
And colorless, and like the withered moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dashed with drops 
Of onset : and the light and lustrous curls - 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais-throne — were parched with 

dust; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose. 
Mixed with the knightly growth that fringed his 

lips. 
So like a shattered column lay the King ; 



574 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, 
From spur to plume a star of tournament. 
Shot through the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go f 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes ? 
For now I see the true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble chance. 
And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light that 

led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole Round Table is dissolved, 
Which was an image of the mighty world ; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless, 
And the days darken round me, and the years, 
Among new men, strange faces, other minds." 

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge : 
" The old order changeth, yielding place to 

new. 
And God fulfils himself in many ways. 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 
Comfort thyself : what comfort is in me ? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
May He within himself make pure ! but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face again, 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by 

prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy 

voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than slieep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them 

friend? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) 
To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 
Deop-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard-lawns 
And bowering hoUows crowned with summer 

sea. 
Where I wiU heal me of my grievous wound." 



So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted 

swan, 
That, fluting a wild carol, ere her death, 
RufQes her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn, 
And on the meer the wailing died away. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank ; 

A ferlie he spied wi' his ee ; 
And there he saw a ladye bright, 

Come riding down by the Eildon tree. 

Her shirt was o' the grass-green silk, 

Her mantle o' the velvet f yne ; 
At ilka tett of her horse's mane 

Hung fifty siller bells and nine. 

True Thomas he pulled afl his cap. 
And louted low down to his knee ; 

" All hail, thou mighty queen of heaven ! 
For thy peer on earth I never did see." 

" Oh no, oh no, Thomas ! " she said, 
" That name does not belang to me ; 

I am but the queen of fair Elfland, 
That am hither come to visit thee. 

" Harp and carp, Thomas ! " she said, 

" Harp and carp along wi' me I 
And if ye dare to kiss my lips, 

Sure of your bodie I will be." 

" Betide me weal, betide me woe, 
That weird shaU never daunton me." 

Syne he has kissed her rosy lips. 
All underneath the Eildon tree. 

" Now, ye maun go wi' me," she said ; 

" True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me ; 
And ye maun serve me seven years, 

Through weal or woe as may chance to be.' 



THE WEE, WEE MAN. 



575 



She mounted on her milk-white steed ; 

She 's ta'en true Thomas up behind ; 
And aye, when'er her bridle rung, 

The steed flew swifter than the wind. 

And they rade on, and farther on — 
The steed gaed swifter than the wind ; 

Until they reached a desert wide, 
And living land was left behind. 

" Light down, light down, now, true Thomas, 

And lean your head upon my knee ! 
Abide and rest a little space. 

And 1 wiU shew you ferlies three. 

" Oh see ye not yon narrow road. 
So thick beset with thorns and briers ? 

That is the path of righteousness. 
Though after it but few enquires. 

"And see ye not that braid, braid road, 

That Hes across that lily leven ? 
That is the path of wickedness, 

Though some call it the road to heaven. 

" And see not ye that bonny road, 

That winds about the f ernie brae ? 
That is the road to fair Elfland, 

Where thou and I this night maun gae. 

" But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue. 

Whatever ye may hear or see ; 
For, if you speak word in Elfyn land, 

Ye'll ne'er get back to your ain countrie." 

Oh they rade on, and farther on. 

And they waded through rivers aboon the kuee ; 
And they saw neither sun nor moon, 

But they heard the roaring of the sea. 

It was mii-k, mii-k night, and there was nae stern 
light. 

And they waded through red blude to the knee ; 
For a' the blude that 's shed on earth 

Rins through the springs o' that countrie. 

Syne they came on to a garden green, 

And she pu'd an apple f rae a tree : 
" Take this for thy wages, true Thomas — 

It will give thee tongue that can never lie." 



" My tongue is mine ain," true Thomas said ; 

" A gudely gift ye wad gie to me ! 
I neither dought to buy nor sell. 

At fair or tryst where I may be. 

" I dought neither speak to prince or peer, 
Nor ask of grace from fair ladye." 

" Now hold thy peace ! " the lady said, 
" For as I say, so must it be." 

He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, 
And a pair of shoes of velvet green ; 

And till seven years were gane and past, 
True Thomas on earth was never seen. 

Anontmotjs. 



a;i)e fcOee, tOu iHan. 

As I was walking by my lane, 

Atween a water and a wa. 
There sune 1 spied a wee, wee man — 

He was the least that ere I saw. 

His legs were scant a shathmont's length, 
And sma and limber was his thie ; 

Between his een there was a span. 
Betwixt his shoulders there were ells three. 

He has tane up a meikle stane. 
And flang 't as far as I cold see ; 

Ein thouch I had been Wallace wicht, 
I dought na lift it to my knie. 

" wee, wee man, but ye be Strang ! 

Tell me whar may thy dwelling be ? " 
"I dwell beneth that bonnie bouir — 

Oh will ye gae wi me and see % " 

On we lap, and awa we rade, 

Till we cam to a bonny green ; 
We lichted syne to bait our steid, 

And out there cam a lady sheen 

Wi four and twentie at her back, 
A comely cled in glistering green ; 

Thouch there the king of Scots had stude. 
The warst micht well hae been his queen. 



576 POEMS OF THE 


niAGlNATION. 


On syne we past wi wondering eheir, 


Sometimes I meete them like a man — 


Till we cam to a bonny ha ; 


Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound ; 


The roof was o' the beaten gowd, 


And to a horse 1 turn me can. 


The flure was o' the crystal a'. 


To trip and trot about them round ; 




But if, to ride. 


When we cam there, wi wee, wee knichts 


My backe they stride. 


War ladies dancing, Jimp and sma ; 


More swift than wind away I goe ; 


But in the twinkling of an eie 


O'er hedge and lands. 


Baith green and ha war clein awa. 


Through pools and ponds, 


Anonymous. 


I whirry, laughing ho, ho, ho ! 




When lads and lasses merry be. 




With possets, and with junkets fine. 


Slje illerra JJranks of JXobin ®oo&- 


Unseene of all the company, 
I eat their cakes, and sip their wine ; 


Sdioxa. 


And to make sport, 




I fume and snort. 


From Oberon, in fairy land. 


And out the candles I do blow. 


The king of ghosts and shadowes there, 


The maids I kiss ; 


Mad Robin, I, at his command, 


They shrieke. Who's this? 


Am sent to view the night-sports here. 


1 answer nought but ho, ho, ho ! 


What revell rout 




Is kept about 


Yet now and then, the maids to please, 


in every corner where I go. 


At midnight I card up their wool ; 


I will o'ersee 


And while they sleepe and take their ease. 


And merrie be. 


With wheel to threads their flax 1 pull. 


And make good sport with ho, ho, ho ! 


I grind at mill 




Their malt up still ; 


More swift than lightning can I fl.ye 


I dress their hemp, I spin their tow. 


About the aery welkin soone, 


If any wake. 


And in a minute's space descrye 


And would me take, 


Each thing that 's done belowe the moone. 


I wend me laughing ho, ho, ho ! 


There "s not a hag 
Or ghost shall wag, 


When house or hearth doth sluttish lye, 


I pinch the maidens black and blue ; 


Or cry 'ware goblins ! where I go ; 
But Eobin, I, 


1 ' 

The bedd-clothes from the bedd pull I, 


And in their ear I bawl too-whoo ! 


Their feats will spy. 


'Twixt sleepe and wake 
I do them take. 


And send them home with ho, ho, ho ! 




And on the clay-cold floor them throw. 


Whene'er such wanderers I meete, 


If out they cry, 
Then forth I fly, 


As from their night-sports they trudge home. 


With counterfeiting voice I greete. 


And loudly laugh out ho, ho, ho I 


And call them on with me to roame. 




Thro' woods, thro' lake*, 


When any need to borrow ought. 


Thro' bogs, thro' brakes. 


We lend them what they do require ; 


Or else unseene, with them I go — 


And for the use demand we naught — 


All in the nicke. 


Our owne is all we do desire. 


To play some tricke. 


If to repay 


And frolick it with ho, ho, ho ! 


They do delay. 



THE FAIRY QUEEN. 577 


Abroad amongst them then I go ; 




And night by night 


@[t)e iTairg QHu^cn. 


I them affright, 




"With pinehings, dreams, and ho, ho, ho ! 


Come, follow, follow me — 




You, fairy elves that be. 


When lazie queans have nought to do 


"Which circle on the green — 


But study how to cog and lye. 


Come, follow Mab, your queen ! 


To make debate and mischief too, 


Hand in hand let 's dance around. 


'Twixt one another secretly. 


For this place is fairy ground. 


I marke their gloze. 




And it disclose 


When mortals are at rest, 


To them whom they have wronged so. 
"When I have done 


And snoring in their nest, 
Unheard and unespied. 


I get me gone, 
And leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho ! 


Through keyholes we do glide ; 


Over tables, stools, and shelves. 




"We trip it with our fairy elves. 


When men do traps and engines set 


And if the house be foul 


In loope holes, where the vermine creepe, 


"With platter, dish, or bowl, 


Who from their foldes and houses get 


Tip stairs we nimbly creep. 


Their duckes and geese, and lambes and sheepe, 


And find the sluts asleep ; 


I spy the gin. 


There we pinch their arms and thighs, 


And enter in, 


None escapes, nor none espies. 


And seeme a vermin taken so ; 




But when they there 


But if the house be swept, 


Approach me neare. 


And from uncleanness kept. 


I leap out laughing ho, ho, ho ! 


We praise the household maid. 




And duly she is paid ; 


By wells and rills, in meadowes green. 


For we use, before we go, 


"We nightly dance our hey-day guise ; 


To drop a tester in her shoe. 


And to our fairye kinge and queene 
"We chaunt our moon-lighte minstrelsies. 


"Upon a miishroom's head 


"When larkes gin sinse 


Our table-cloth we spread ; 


Away we ilinge, 


A grain of rye or wheat 


And babes new-born steale as we go ; 
And shoes in bed 


Is manchet, which we eat ; 


Pearly drops of dew we drink. 


"We leave instead, 


In acorn-cups, filled to the brink. 


And wend us laughing ho, ho, ho ! 


The brains of nightingales. 




"With unctuous fat of snails, 


From hag-bred Merlin's time have 1 


Between two cockles stewed, 


Thus nightly revelled to and fro ; 


Is meat that 's easily chewed ; 


And, for my prankes, men call me by 


Tails of worms, and marrow of mice. 


The name of Robin Good-Fellow. 


Do make a dish that 's wondrous nice. 


Friends, ghosts, and sprites 




"Who haunt the nightes, 


The grasshopper, gnat, and fly. 


The hags and gobblins, do me know ; 


Serve us for our minstrelsy ; 


And beldames old 


Grace said, we dance a while, 


My feates have told — 


And so the time beguile ; 


So vale, vale ! Ho, ho, ho ! 


And if the moon doth hide her head, 


ANONTMOtrS. 

3Q 


" The glow-worm lights us home to bed. 



578 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



On tops of dewy grass 

So nimbly do we pass, 

The young and tender stalk 

Ne'er bends when we do walk ; 
Yet in the morning may be seen 
Where we the night before have been. 

Anonymous. 



9ri)e iFairies' Song. 

We dance on hills above the wind, 
And leave our footsteps there behind ; 
Which shall to after ages last, 
When all our dancing days are past. 

Sometimes we dance upon the shore, 
To whistling winds and seas that roar ; 
Then we make the wind to blow, 
And set the seas a-dancing too. 

The thunder's noise is our delight. 
And lightnings make us day by night ; 
And in the air we dance on high, 
To the loud music of the sky. 

About the moon we make a ring. 
And falling stars we wanton fling. 
Like squibs and rockets, for a toy ; 
While what frights others is our joy. 

But when we'd hunt away our cares, 
We boldly mount the galloping spheres ; 
And, riding so from east to west. 
We chase each nimble zodiac beast. 

Thus, giddy gro\vn, we make our beds. 
With thick, black clouds to rest our heads. 
And flood the earth with our dark showers. 
That did but sprinkle these our bowers'. 

Thus, having done with orbs and sky, 
Those mighty spaces vast and high, 
Then down we come and take the shapes. 
Sometimes of cats, sometimes of apes. 

Next, turned to mites in cheese, forsooth. 
We get into some hollow tooth ; 
Wherein, as in a Christmas hall, 
We frisk and dance, the devil and all. 



Then we change our wily features 
Into yet far smaller creatures, 
And dance in joints of gouty toes, 
To painful tunes of groans and woes, 

Anonykous. 



Song 0f \\\t iTairg. 

Over hOl, over dale, 

Thorough bush, thorough brier, 
Over park, over pale. 

Thorough flood, thorough fire, 
I do wander everywhere, 
Swifter than the moon's sphere ; 
And I serve the fairy queen, 
To dew her orbs upon the green ; 
The cowslips tall her pensioners be ; 
In their gold coats, spots you see : 
These be rubies, fairy favors — 
In those freckles live their savors. 
I must go seek some dewdrops here. 
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 

William Shakespeare. 



iToirg Song. 

Shed no tear ! oh shed no tear ! 
The flower will bloom another year. 
Weep no more ! oh weep no more ! 
Young buds sleep in the root's white core. 
Dry your eyes ! oh dry your eyes ! 
For I was taught in Paradise 
To ease my breast of melodies — 
Shed no tear. 

Overhead ! look overhead ! 
'Mong the blossoms white and red — 
Look up, look up ! I flutter now 
On this fresh pornegranate-bough. 
See me ! 'tis this silvery bill 
Ever cures the good man's ill. 
Shed no tear ! oh shed no tear ! 
The flower will bloom another year. 
Adieu, adieu — I fly — adieu ! 
I vanish in the heaven's blue — 
Adieu, adieu ! 

John Keats. 



LA BELLE DAME SANS MERGL 579 




She found me roots of relish sweet. 


Song of dairies. 


And honey wild, and manna dew ; 




And sure in language strange she said. 


We the fairies, blithe and antic, 


" I love thee true." 


Of dimensions not gigantic, 




Though the moonshine mostly keep us, 


She took me to her elfin grot. 


Oft in orchards frisk and peep us. 


And there she wept, and sighed full sore ; 


Stolen sweets are always sweeter ; 


And there I shut her wild, wild eyes 


Stolen kisses much completer ; 


With kisses four. 


Stolen looks are nice in chapels : 


And there she lulled me asleep ; 


Stolen, stolen be your apples. 


And there I dreamed — Ah ! woe betide ! 


When to bed the world are bobbing. 


The latest dream I ever dreamed 


Then 's the time for orchard-robbiag ; 


On the cold hill's side. 


Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling 




Were it not for stealing, stealing. 


I saw pale kings and princes too — 
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ; 


Thomas Randolph. (Latin.) 


They cried, " La belle dame sans merci 


Translation of Leigh Htwr. 




Hath thee in thrall ! " 




I saw their starved lips in the gloam, 


Ca JBelle Mamt sans iJlerci. 


With horrid warning gaped wide ; 




And I awoke and found me here. 


Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms ! 


On the cold hill's side. 


Alone and palely loitering ? 




The sedge has withered from the lake, 


And this is why I sojourn here, 


And no birds sing. 


Alone and palely loitering. 


Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms 1 


Though the sedge is withered from the lake. 


So haggard and so woe-begone ? 


And no birds sing. 

John Keats. 


The squirrel's granary is full. 




And the harvest 's done. 




I see a lily on thy brow, 


Hilmeng. 


With anguish moist and fever dew ; 


And on thy cheeks a fading rose 


Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen ; 


Fast withereth too. 


But it wasna to meet Duneira's men, 


I met a lady in the mead. 

Full beautiful, a fairy's child ; 

Her hair was long, her foot was light. 
And her eyes were wild. 


Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see. 
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. 


It was only to hear the yorlin sing, 

And pu' the cress-flower round the spring — 

The scarlet hypp, and the hind berry. 


I made a garland for her head. 


And the nut that hung f rae the hazel-tree ; 


And bracelets too, and fragrant zone : 


For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. 


She looked at me as she did love. 


But lang may her minny look o'er the wa'. 


And made sweet moan. 


And lang may she seek i' the greenwood shaw ; 




Lang the laird of Duneira blame, 


I set her on my pacing steed. 


And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame. 


And nothing else saw all day long ; 




For sidelong would she bend, and sing 


When many a day had come and fled. 


A fairy song. 


When grief grew calm, and hope was dead, 



580 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung, 
When the bedes-man had prayed, and the dead- 
bell rung ; 
Late, late in a gloamin, when all was still, 
When the fringe was red on the westlin hill, 
The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane. 
The reek o' the cot hiing over the plain — 
Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane ; 
When the ingle lowed witli an eiry leme, 
Late, late in the gloamin Kilmeny came hame ! 

" Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ? 
Lang hae we sought both holt and den — 
By linn, by ford, and greenwood tree ; 
Yet you are halesome and fair to see. 
Where got you that joup o' the lily sheen ? 
That bonny snood of the birk sae green ? 
And these roses, the fairest that ever was seen ? 
Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been f " 

Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace. 
But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face ; 
As still was her look, and as still was her ee. 
As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea. 
Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. 
For Kilmeny had been she knew not where, 
And Kilmeny had seen what she could not de- 
clare ; 
Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew. 
Where the rain never fell, and the wind never 

blew ; 
But it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung. 
And the airs of heaven played round her tongue. 
When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen. 
And a land where sin had never been — 
A land of love, and a land of light, 
Withouten sun, or moon, or night ; 
Where the river swa'd a living stream. 
And the light a pure celestial beam :• 
The land of vision it would seem, 
A still, an everlasting dream. 

In yon greenwood there is a waik. 
And in that waik there is a wene. 

And in that wene there is a maike. 
That neither has flesh, blood, nor bane ; 

And down in yon greenwood he walks his lane. 

In that green wene, Kilmeny lay. 
Her bosom happed wi' the flowerets gay ; 



But the air was soft and the silence deep. 
And bonny Kilmeny fell sound asleep ; 
She kend nae mair, nor opened her ee, 
Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye. 

She 'wakened on a couch of the silk sae slim, 
All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim ; 
And lovely beings around were rife, 
Who erst had travelled mortal life ; 
And aye they smiled, and 'gan to speer : 
" What spirit has brought this mortal here ! " 

" Lang have I Journeyed the world wide," 
A meek and reverend fere replied ; 
" Baith night and day I have watched the fair 
Eident a thousand years and mair. 
Yes, I have watched o'er ilk degree, 
Wherever blooms femenitye ; 
But sinless virgin, free of stain 
In mind and body, fand I nane. 
Never, since the banquet of time, 
Found 1 a virgin in her prime, 
Till late this bonny maiden I saw, 
As spotless as the morning snaw. 
Full twenty years she has lived as free 
As the spirits that sojourn in this countrye. 
I have brought her away frae the snares of men, 
That sin or death she may never ken." 
They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair ; 
They kissed her cheek, and they kemed her hair ; 
And round came many a blooming fere. 
Saying, " Bonny Kilmeny, ye 're welcome here ; 
Women are freed of the littand scorn; 
Oh, blest be the day Kilmeny was born ! 
Now shall the land of the spirits see, 
Now shall it ken, what a woman may be ! 
Many a lang year in sorrow and pain, 
Many a lang year through the world we've gane. 
Commissioned to watch fair womankind. 
For it 's they who nurice the immortal mind. 
We have watched their steps as the dawning shone. 
And deep in the greenwood walks alone ; 
By lily bower and silken bed 
The viewless tears have o'er them shed ; 
Have soothed their ardent minds to sleep, 
Or left the couch of love to weep. 
We have seen ! we have seen ! but the time must 

come. 
And the angels will weep at the day of doom ! 



KILMENY. 



581 



" Oh, would the fairest of mortal kiud 
Aye keep the holy truths in mind, 
That kindred spirits their motions see, 
Who watch their ways with anxious ee, 
And grieve for the guilt of humanitye ! 
Oh, sweet to heaven the maiden's prayer, 
And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair ! 
And dear to heaven the words of truth 
And the praise of virtue f rae beauty's mouth ! 
And dear to the viewless forms of air. 
The minds that kythe as the body fair ! 

" bonny Kilmeny ! free frae stain, 
If ever you seek the world again — 
That world of sin, of sorrow and fear — 
Oh, tell of the Joys that are waiting here ; 
And tell of the signs you shall shortly see ; 
Of the times that are now, and the times that shall 
be." 

They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away. 
And she walked in the light of a sunless day. 
The sky was a dome of crystal bright. 
The fountain of vision, and fountain of light ; 
The emerald fields were of dazzling glow, 
And the flowers of everlasting blow. 
Then deep in the stream her body they laid. 
That her youth and beauty never might fade ; 
And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie 
In the stream of life that wandered by. 
And she heard a song — she heard it sung, 
She kend not where ; but sae sweetly it rung. 
It fell on her ear like a dream of the morn — 
" Oh ! blest be the day Kilmeny was born ! 
Now shall the land of the spirits see, 
Now shall it ken, what a woman may be ! 
The sun that shines on the world sae bright, 
A borrowed gleid frae the fountain of light ; 
And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun, 
Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun — 
Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair ; 
And the angels shall miss them, travelling the air. 
But lang, lang after baith night and day. 
When the sun and the world have dyed away. 
When the sinner has gane to his waesome doom, 
Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom ! " 

They bore her away, she wist not how, 
For she felt not arm nor rest below ; 



But so swift they wained her through the light, 

'Twas like the motion of sound or sight ; 

They seeemed to split the gales of air. 

And yet nor gale nor breeze was there. 

Unnumbered groves below them grew ; 

They came, they past, and backward flew, 

Like floods of blossoms gliding on, 

In moment seen, in moment gone. 

Oh, never vales to mortal view 

Appeared like those o'er which they flew — 

That land to human spirits given. 

The lowermost vales of the storied heaven ; 

From whence they can view the world below. 

And heaven's blue gates with sapphires glow — 

More glory yet unmeet to know. 

They bore her far to a mountain green, 
To see what mortal never had seen ; 
And they seated her high on a purple sward, 
And bade her heed what she saw and heard, 
And note the changes the spirits wrought ; 
For now she lived in the land of thought. 
She looked, and she saw nor sun nor skies, 
But a crystal dome of a thousand dies ; 
She looked, and she saw nae land aright. 
But an endless whirl of glory and light ; 
And radiant beings went and came, 
Far swifter than wind, or the linked flame; 
She hid her een frae the dazzling view ; 
She looked again, and the scene was new. 

She saw a sun on a summer sky, 
And clouds of amber sailing by ; 
A lovely land beneath her lay. 
And that land had glens and mountains gray ; 
And that land had valleys and hoary piles. 
And marled seas, and a thousand isles ; 
Its fields were speckled, its forests green. 
And its lakes were all of the dazzling sheen. 
Like magic mirrors, where slumbering lay 
The sun and the sky and the cloudlet gray. 
Which heaved and trembled, and gently swung ; 
On every shore they seemed to be hung ; 
For there they were seen on their downward plain 
A thousand times and a thousand again ; 
In winding lake and placid firth — 
Little peaceful heavens in the bosom of earth. 

Kilmeny sighed and seemed to grieve, 
For she found her heart to that land did cleave : 



582 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



She saw the corn wave on the vale ; 

She saw the deer run down the dale ; 

She saw the plaid and the broad claymore, 

And the brows that the badge of freedom bore ; 

And she thought she had seen the land before. 

She saw a lady sit on a throne, 
The fairest that ever the sun shone on ! 
A lion licked her hand of milk, 
And she held him in a leish of silk, 
And a leifu' maiden stood at her knee. 
With a silver wand and melting ee — 
Her sovereign shield, till love stole in, 
And poisoned all the fount within. 

Then a gruff, untoward bedesman came, 
And hundit the lion on his dame ; 
And the guardian maid wi' the dauntless ee. 
She dropped a tear, and left her knee ; 
And she saw till the queen frae the lion fled. 
Till the bonniest flower of the world lay dead ; 
A coffin was set on a distant plain, 
And she saw the red blood fall like rain. 
Then bonny Kilmeny's heart grew sair. 
And she turned away, and could look nae mair. 

Then the gruff, grim carle girned amain. 
And they trampled him down, but he rose again ; 
And he baited the lion to deeds of weir. 
Till he lapped the blood to the kingdom dear ; 
And, weening his head was danger-preef 
When crowned with the rose and clover leaf. 
He growled at the carle, and chased him away 
To feed wi' the deer on the mountain gray. 
He growled at the carle, and he gecked at heaven ; 
But his mark was set, and his arles given. 
Kilmeny a while her een withdrew ; 
She looked again, and the scene was new. 

She saw below her, fair unfurled, 
One half of all the glowing world. 
Where oceans rolled and rivers ran, 
To bound the aims of sinful man. 
She saw a people fierce and fell, , 
Burst frae their bounds like fiends of hell ; 
There lilies grew, and the eagle flew ; 
And she herked on her ravening crew. 
Till the cities and towers were wrapt in a blaze. 
And the thunder it roared o'er the lands and the seas. 



The widows they wailed, and the red blood ran, 
And she threatened an end to the race of man. 
She never lened, nor stood in awe. 
Till caught by the lion's deadly paw. 
Oh ! then the eagle swinked for life, 
And brainzelled up a mortal strife ; 
But flew she north or flew she south. 
She met wi' the growl of the lion's mouth. 

With a mooted wing and waefu' maen. 
The eagle sought her eiry again ; 
But lang may she cower in her bloody nest, 
And lang, lang sleek her wounded breast. 
Before she sey another flight. 
To play wi' the norland lion's might. 

But to sing the sights Kilmeny saw, 
So far surpassing nature's law. 
The singer's voice wad sink away. 
And the string of his harp wad cease to play. 
But she saw till the sorrows of man were by 
And all was love and harmony ; 
Till the stars of heaven fell calmly away. 
Like the flakes of snaw on a winter's day. 

Then Kilmeny begged again to see 
The friends she had left in her own countrye, 
To tell of the place where she had been. 
And the glories that lay in the land unseen ; 
To warn the living maidens fair. 
The loved of heaven, the spirits' care. 
That all whose minds unmeled remain 
Shall bloom in beauty when time is gane. 

With distant music, soft and deep. 
They lulled Kilmeny sound asleep ; 
And when she awakened she lay her lane, 
All happed with flowers in the greenwood wene. 
When seven long years had come and fled ; 
When grief was calm and hope was dead ; 
When scarce was remembered Kilmeny's name, 
Late, late in a gloamin, Kilmeny came hame ! 
And oh, her beauty was fair to see, 
But still and steadfast was her ee ! 
Such beauty bard may never declare. 
For there was no pride nor passion there ; 
And the soft desire of maidens' een, 
In that mild face could never be seen. 



4 



THE FAIRIES OF THE GALDON LOW. 



583 



Her seymar was the lily flower, 

And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower ; 

And her voice like the distant melodye 

That floats along the twilight sea. 

But she loved to raike the lanely glen, 

And keeped afar frae the haunts of men ; 

Her holy hymns unheard to sing. 

To suck the flowers and drink the spring. 

But wherever her peaceful form appeared, 

The wild beasts of the hills were cheered ; 

The wolf played blythely round the field. 

The lordly byson lowed and kneeled ; 

The dun deer wooed with manner bland, 

And cowed aneath her lily hand. 

And when at even the woodlands rung, 

When hymns of other worlds she sung 

In ecstasy of sweet devotion, 

Oh, then the glen was all in motion ! 

The wild beasts of the forest came, 

Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame. 

And goved around, charmed and amazed ; 

Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed. 

And murmured and looked with anxious pain. 

For something the mystery to explain. 

The buzzard came with the throstle-cock. 

The corby left her houf in the rock ; 

The black-bird alang wi' the eagle flew ; • 

The hind came tripping o'er the dew ; 

The wolf and the kid their raike began ; 

And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran ; 

The hawk and the hern attour them hung. 

And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their 

young ; 
And all in a peaceful ring were hurled : 
It was like an even in a sinless world ! 

When a month and day had come and gane, 
Kilmeny sought the greenwood wene ; 
There laid her down on the leaves sae green. 
And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen. 
But oh, the words that fell from her mouth 
Were words of wonder, and words of truth ! 
But all the land were in fear and dread. 
For they kend na whether she was living or dead. 
It wasna her hame, and she couldna remain ; 
She left this world of sorrow and pain. 
And returned to the land of thought again. 

James Hogs. 



Qtl)e £amzB of tl)e (Ealiioit Com. 

A MIDSUMMER LEGEND. 

" And where have you been, my Mary, 
And where have you been from me ? " 

" I've been to the top of the Caldon Low, 
The midsummer-night to see." 

" And what did you see, my Mary, 
All up on the Caldon Low f " 

" I saw the glad sunshine come down. 
And I saw the merry winds blow." 

" And what did you hear, my Mary, 

All up on the Caldon hfll ? " 
" I heard the drops of the water made. 

And the ears of the green corn fill." 

" Oh ! tell me all, my Mary — 

All, all that ever you know ; 
For you must have seen the fairies. 

Last night on the Caldon Low." 

" Then take me on your knee, mother ; 

And listen, mother of mine : 
A hundred fairies danced last night. 

And the harpers they were nine ; 

" And their harp-strings rung so merrily 
To their dancing feet so small ; 

But oh ! the words of their talking 
Were merrier far than aU." 

" And what were the words, my Mary, 
That then you heard them say ? " 

" I'll tell you all, my mother ; 
But let me have my way. 

" Some of them played with the water, 

And rolled it down the hill ; 
' And this,' they said, ' shall speedily turn 

The poor old miller's mill ; 

" ' For there has been no water 

Ever since the first of May ; 
And a bpsy man will the miller be 

At dawning of the day. 



584 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



" ' Oh ! the miller, how he -will laugh 
When he sees the mill-dam rise ! 

The jolly old miller, how he will laugh 
Till the tears fill both his eyes ! ' 

" And some they seized the little winds 

That sounded over the hill ; 
And each put a horn unto his mouth, 

And blew both loud and shrUl ; 

" ' And there,' they said, ' the merry winds go 

Away from every horn ; 
And they shall clear the mildew dank 

From the blind old widow's corn. 

" ' Oh ! the poor, blind widow, 
Though she has been blind so long, 

She'll be blithe enough when the mildew 's gone. 
And the corn stands tall and strong.' 

" And some they brought the brown lint-seed. 
And flung it down from the Low ; 

' And this,' they said, ' by the sunrise, 
In the weaver's croft shall grow. 

" ' Oh ! the poor, lame weaver, 

How will he laugh outright 
When he sees his dwindling flax-field 

All fuU of flowers by night ! ' 

" And then outspoke a brownie. 

With a long beard on his chin ; 
' I have spun up all the tow,' said he, 

' And I want some more to spin. 

" ' I've spun a piece of hempen cloth. 

And I want to spin another ; 
A little sheet for Mary's bed, 

And an apron for her mother.' 

" With that I could not help but laugh. 
And I laughed out loud and free ; 

And then on the top of the Caldon Low 
There was no one left but me. « 

" And on the top of the Caldon Low 

The mists were cold and gray. 
And nothing I saw but the mossy stones 

That round about me lay. 



" But, coming down from the hill-top, 

I heard afar below. 
How busy the jolly miller was, 

And how the wheel did go. 

" And I peeped into the widow's field. 

And, sure enough, were seen 
The yellow ears of the mildewed corn. 

All standing stout and green. 

" And down by the weaver's croft I stole. 

To see if the flax were sprung ; 
And I met the weaver at his gate, 

With the good news on his tongue. 

" Now this is all I heard, mother, 

And all that I did see ; 

So, pr'ythee, make my bed, mother, 

For I'm tired as I can be." 

Mary Howitt. 



®l) ! vo\\cxt bo fairies ^ibe X\)t\x f eairs? 

Oh ! where do fairies hide their heads, 

When snow lies on the hills. 
When frost has spoiled their mossy beds. 

And crystallized their rills ? 
Beneath the moon they cannot trip 

In circles o'er the plain ; 
And draughts of dew they cannot sip. 

Till green leaves come again. 

Perhaps, in small, blue diving-bells 

They plunge beneath the waves. 
Inhabiting the wreathed shells 

That lie in coral caves. 
Perhaps, in red Vesuvius 

Carousals they maintain ; 
And cheer their little spirits thus. 

Till green leaves come again. 

When they return, there will be mirth 

And music in the air, 
And fairy wings upon the earth. 

And mischief everywhere. 
The maids, to keep the elves aloof. 

Will bar the doors in vain ; 
No key-hole will be fairy-proof. 

When green leaves come again. 

Thomas Hathes Batxt. 



THE CULPRIT FAY. 



585 



a:i)e OTulprit £ai^. 



' Mt visual orbs are purged from film, and, lo ! 
Instead of Anster's turnip-bearing vales, 
I see old fairy land's mii-aculous show ! 

Her trees of tinsel kissed by freakish gales. 
Her ouphs that, cloaked in leaf -gold, skim the breeze. 

And fairies, swarming ." 

Tennaut's Ansteb Fair. 



'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night — 

The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright ; 

Naught is seen in the vault on high 

But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky, 

And the flood which rolls its milky hue, 

A river of light on the welkin blue. 

The moon looks down on old Cronest ; 

She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast, 

And seems his huge gray form to throw 

In a silver cone on the wave below ; 

His sides are broken by spots of shade. 

By the walnut-bough and the cedar made. 

And through their clustering branches dark 

Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark — 

Like starry twinkles that momently break 

Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack. 

n. 

The stars are on the moving stream. 

And fling, as its ripples gently flow, 
A burnished length of wavy beam 

In an eel-like, spiral line below ; 
The winds are whist, and the owl is still ; 

The bat in the shelvy rock is hid ; 
And naught is heard on the lonely hiU 
But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill 

Of the gauze-winged katydid ; 
And the plaint of the wailing whippoorwill. 

Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings. 
Ever a note of wail and woe. 

Till morning spreads her rosy wings. 
And earth and sky in her glances glow. 



'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell : 
The wood-tick has kept the minutes well ; 
He has counted them all with click and stroke 
Deep in the heart of the mountain-oak, 



And he has awakened the sentry elve 
Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, 

To bid him ring the hour of twelve. 
And call the fays to their revelry ; 

Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell — 

('Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell — ) 
" Midnight comes, and all is well ! 

Hither, hither, wing your way ! 

'Tis the dawn of the fairy-day." 



They come from beds of lichen green, 
They creep from the muUen's velvet screen ; 
Some on the backs of beetles fly 

Prom the silver tops of moon-touched trees. 
Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks 
high, 

And rocked about in the evening breeze ; 
Some from the hum-bird's downy nest — 

They had driven him out by elfin power, 
And, pUlowed on plumes of his rainbow breast. 

Had slumbered there till the charmed hour ; 
Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, 

With glittering ising-stars inlaid ; 
And some had opened the four-o'clock, 

And stole within its purple shade. 
And now they throng the moonlight glade, 

Above — below — on every side, 
Their little minim forms arrayed 

In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride ! 



They come not now to print the lea. 
In freak and dance around the tree. 
Or at the nmshroom board to sup. 
And drink the dew from the buttercup ; 
A scene of sorrow waits them now, 
For an ouphe has broken his vestal vow ; 
He has loved an earthly maid. 
And left for her his woodland shade ; 
He has lain upon her lip of dew. 
And sunned him in her eye of blue. 
Fanned her cheek with his wing of air, 
Played in the ringlets of her hair. 
And, nestling on her snowy breast. 
Forgot the lily-king's behest. 
For this the shadowy tribes of air 
To the elfin court must haste away : 



586 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 


And now they stand expectant there, 


VIII. 


To hear the doom of the culprit fay. 




" Thou shalt seek the beach of sand 




Where the water bounds the elfin-land ; 


VI. 


Thou shalt watch the oozy brine 


The throne was reared upon the grass, 


TUl the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine. 


Of spice-wood and of sassafras ; 


Then dart the glistening arch below. 


On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell 


And catch a drop from his silver bow. 


Hung the burnished canopy — 


The water-sprites will wield their arms 


And o'er it gorgeous curtains fell 


And dash around, with roar and rave. 


Of the tulip's crimson drapery. 


And vain are the woodland spirits' charms ; 


The monarch sat on his judgment-seat, 


They are the imps that rule the wave. 


On his brow the crown imperial shone, 


Yet trust thee in thy single might : 


The prisoner fay was at his feet. 


If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right, 


And his peers were ranged around the throne. 


Thou shalt win the warlock fight. 


He waved his sceptre in the air. 




He looked around and calmly spoke; 


IX. 


His brow was grave and his eye severe, 


" If the spray-bead gem be won. 


But his voice in a softened accent broke : 


The stain of thy wing is washed away ; 




But another errand must be done 


VII. 


Ere thy crime be lost for aye : 


" Fairy ! fairy ! list and mark : 


Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark. 


Thou hast broke thine eliin chain ; 


Thou must reillume its spark. 


Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dai^k. 


Mount thy steed and spur him high 


And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain — 


To the heaven's blue canopy ; 


Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity 


And when thou seest a shooting star. 


In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye ; 


Follow it fast, and follow it far — 


Thou hast scorned our dread decree. 


The last faint spark of its burning train 


And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high. 


Shall light the elfln lamp again. 


But well I know her sinless mind 


Thou hast heard our sentence, fay ; 


Is pure as the angel forms above. 


Hence ! to the water-side, away ! " 


Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind. 




Such as a spirit well might love ; 


X. 


Fairy ! had she spot or taint. 


The goblin marked his monarch well, 


Bitter had been thy punishment : 


He spake not, but he bowed him low. 


Tied to the hornet's shardy wings ; 


Then plucked a crimson colen-bell. 


Tossed on the pricks of nettles' stings ; 


And turned him round in act to go. 


Or seven long ages doomed to dwell 


The way is long, he cannot fly. 


With the lazy worm in the walnut-shell ; 


His soiled wing has lost its power, 


Or every night to writhe and bleed 


And he winds adown the mountain high, 


Beneath the tread of the centipede ; 


For many a sore and weary hour. 


Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim. 


Through dreary beds of tangled fern. 


Your jailer a spider, huge and grim, 


Through groves of nightshade dark and dern, 


Amid the carrion bodies to lie , 


Over the grass and through the brake. 


Of the worm, and the bug, and the murdered fly : 


Whei'e toils the ant and sleeps the snake; 


These it had been your lot to bear. 


Now o'er the violet's azure flush 


Had a stain been found on the earthly fair. 


He skips along in lightsome mood ; 


Now list, and mark our mild decree — 


And now he thrids the bramble-bush, 


Fairy, this your doom must be : 


Till its points are dyed in fairy blood. 



THE CVLPRIT FAY. 



587 



He has leaped the bog, he has pierced the brier, 
He has swum the brook, and waded the mire, 
Till his spu-its sank, and his limbs grew weak, 
And the red waxed fainter in his cheek. 
He had fallen to the ground outright, 

For rugged and dim was his onward track. 
But there came a spotted toad in sight. 

And he laughed as he jumped upon her back ; 
He bridled her mouth with a silkweed twist. 

He lashed her sides with an osier thong ; 
And now, through evening's dewy mist. 

With leap and spring they bound along. 
Till the mountain's magic verge is past. 
And the beach of sand is reached at last. 

XI. 

Soft and pale is the moony beam, 
Moveless still the glassy stream ; 
The wave is clear, the beach is bright 

With snowy shells and sparkling stones ; 
The shore-surge comes in ripples light. 

In murmurings faint and distant moans ; 
And ever afar in the silence deep 
Is heard the splash of tlie sturgeon's leap. 
And the bend of his graceful bow is seen — 
A glittering arch of silver sheen. 
Spanning the wave of burnished blue. 
And dripping with gems of the river-dew. 



The elfin cast a glance around. 

As he lighted down from his courser toad ; 
Then round his breast his wings he wound. 

And close to the river's brink he strode ; 
He sprang on a rock, he breathed a prayer, 

Above his head his arms he threw. 
Then tossed a tiny curve in air, 

And headlong plunged in the waters blue. 



Up sprung the spirits of the waves. 

From the sea-silk beds in their coral caves ; 

With snail-plate armor snatched in haste. 

They speed their way through the liquid waste ; 

Some are rapidly borne along 

On the mailed shrimp or the prickly prong; 

Some on the blood-red leeches glide 

Some on the stony star-fish ride. 



Some on the back of the lancing squab, 
Some on the sideling soldier-crab ; 
And some on the jellied quarl, that flings 
At once a thousand streamy stings ; 
They cut the wave with the living oar, 
And hurry on to the moonlight shore. 
To guard their realms and chase away 
The footsteps of the invading fay. 



Fearlessly he skims along. 
His hope is high, and his limbs are strong ; 
He spreads his arms like the swallow's wing, 
And throws his feet with a frog-like fling ; 
His locks of gold on the waters shine. 

At his breast the tiny foam-bees rise. 
His back gleams bright above the brine, 

And the wake-line foam behind him lies. 
But the water-sprites are gathering near 

To check his course along the tide ; 
Their warriors come in swift career 

And hem him round on every side ; 
On his thigh the leech has fixed his hold. 
The quarl's long arms are round him rolled, 
The prickly prong has pierced his skin, 
And the squab has thrown his javelin ; 
The gritty star has rubbed him raw, 
And the crab has struck with his giant claw ; 
He howls with rage, and he shrieks with pain ; 
He strikes around, but his blows are vain ; 
Hopeless is the unequal fight. 
Fairy ! naught is left but flight. 

XY. 

He turned him round, and fled amain 

With hurry and dash to the beach again ; 

He twisted over fi-om side to side, 

And laid his cheek to the cleaving tide ; 

The strokes of his plunging arms are fleet. 

And with all his might he flings his feet, 

But the water-sprites are round him still, 

To cross his path and work him ill. 

They bade the wave before him rise : 

They flung the sea-fire in his eyes ; 

And they stunned his ears with the scallop-stroke. 

With the porpoise heave and the drum-fish croak. 

Oh ! but a weary wight was he 

When he reached the foot of the dogwood-tree. 



588 



POEMS OF TEE IMAGINATION. 



— Gashed and wounded, and stifE and sore, 
He laid him down on the sandy shore ; 
He blessed the force of the charmed line, 
And he banned the water-goblin's spite. 
For he saw around in the sweet moonshine 
Their little wee faces above the brine. 

Giggling and laughing with all their might 
At the piteous hap of the fairy wight. 

XVI. 

Soon he gathered the balsam dew 
Prom the sorrel-leaf and the henbane-bud : 

Over each wound the balm he drew, 
And with cobweb lint he stanched the blood. 

The mild west wind was soft and low, 

It cooled the heat of his burning brow ; 

And he felt new life in his sinews shoot. 

As he drank the juice of the calamus-root ; 

And now he treads the fatal shore. 

As fresh and vigorous as before. 

XVII. 

Wrapped in musing stands the sprite : 
'Tis the middle wane of night ; 

His task is hard, his way is far, 
But he must do his errand right 

Ere Dawning mounts her beamy car, 
And rolls her chariot-wheels of light ; 
And vain are the spells of fairy-land — 
He must work with a human hand. 



He cast a saddened look around ; 

But he felt new joy his bosom swell, 
When, glittering on the shadowed ground, 

He saw a purple muscle-shell ; 
Thither he ran, and he bent him low, 
He heaved at the stern and he heaved at the bow. 
And he pushed her over the yielding sand. 
Till he came to the verge of the haunted land. 
She was as lovely a pleasure-boat 

As ever fairy had paddled in. 
For she glowed with purple paint wi^thout. 

And shone with silvery pearl within ; 
A sculler's notch in the stern he made, 
An oar he shaped of the bootle-blade ; 
Then sprung to his seat with a lightsome leap, 
And launched afar on the calm, blue deep. 



XIX. 

The imps of the river yell and rave ; 
They had no power above the wave ; 
But they heaved the billow before the prow. 

And they dashed the surge against her side, 
And they struck her keel with jerk and blow. 

Till the gunwale bent to the rocking tide. 
She whimpled about to the pale moonbeam. 
Like a feather that floats on a wind-tossed stream ; 
And momently athwart her track 
The quarl upreared his island back. 
And the fluttering scallop behind would float. 
And patter the water about the boat ; 
But he bailed her out with his colen-bell. 

And he kept her trimmed with a wary tread. 
While on every side like lightning fell 

The heavy strokes of his bootle-blade. 



Onward still he held his way. 

Till he came where the column of moonshine lay, 

And saw beneath the surface dim 

The brown-backed sturgeon slowly swim ; 

Around him were the goblin train — 

But he sculled with all his might and main. 

And followed wherever the sturgeon led. 

Till he saw him upward point his head ; 

Then he dropped his paddle-blade. 

And held his colen-goblet up 

To catch the drop in its crimson cup. 

XXI. 

With sweeping tail and quivering fin 

Through the wave the sturgeon flew. 
And, like the heaven-shot javelin. 

He sprung above the waters blue. 
Instant as the star-fall light, 

He plunged him in the deep again, 
But he left an arch of silver bright, 

The rainbow of the moony main. 
It was a strange and lovely sight 

To see the puny goblin there ; 
He seemed an angel form of light. 

With azure wing and sunny hair. 

Throned on a cloud of purple fair, 
Circled with blue and edged with white. 
And sitting at the fall of even 
Beneath the bow of summer heaven. 



THE CULPRIT FAY. 



589 



A moment, and its lustre fell ; 

But ere it met the billow blue, 
He caught within his crimson bell 

A droplet of its sparkling dew — 
Joy to thee, fay ! thy task is done. 
Thy wings are pure, for the gem is won. 
Cheei-ly ply thy dripping oar. 
And haste away to the elfin shore, 

XXIII. 

He turns, and, lo ! on either side 

The ripples on his path divide ; 

And the track o'er which his boat must pass 

Is smooth as a sheet of polished glass. 

Around, their limbs the sea-nymphs lave, 

With snowy arms half-swelling out, 
While on the glossed and gleamy wave 

Their sea-green ringlets loosely float ; 
They swim around with smile and song ; 

They press the bark with pearly hand, 
And gently urge her course along. 

Toward the beach of speckled sand ; 

And, as he lightly leaped to land. 
They bade adieu with nod and bow ; 

Then gayly kissed each little hand, ■ 
And dropped in the crystal deep below. 

XXIT. 

A moment stayed the fairy there ; 

He kissed the beach and breathed a prayer ; 

Then spread his wings of gilded blue. 

And on to the elfin court he flew ; 

As ever ye saw a bubble rise, 

And shine with a thousand changing dyes. 

Till, lessening far, through ether driven. 

It mingles with the hues of heaven ; 

As, at the glimpse of morning pale, 

The lance-fly spreads his silken sail, 

And gleams with blendings soft and bright, 

Till lost in the shades of fading night : 

So rose from earth the lovely fay — 

So vanished, far in heaven away ! 

****** 
Up, fairy ! quit thy chick-weed bower. 
The cricket has called the second hour ; 
Twice again, and the lark will rise 
To kiss the streaking of the skies — 



Up ! thy charmed armor don, 

Thou 'It need it ere the night be gone. 

XXV. 

He put his acorn helmet on ; 

It was plumed of the silk of the thistle-down ; 

The corselet plate that guarded his breast 

Was once the wUd bee's golden vest ; 

His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes. 

Was formed of the wings of butterflies ; 

His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen, 

Studs of gold on a ground of green ; 

And the quivering lance which he brandished 

bright 
Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in flght. 
Swift he bestrode his flre-fly steed ; 

He bared his blade of the bent-grass blue ; 
He drove his spurs of the cockle-seed, 

And away like a glance of thought he flew, 
To skim the heavens, and follow far 
The fiery trail of the rocket-star. 

XXVI. 

The moth-fly, as he shot in air. 

Crept under the leaf, and hid her there ; 

The katydid forgot its lay. 

The prowling gnat fled fast away, 

The fell mosquito checked his drone 

And folded his wings till the fay was gone. 

And the wily beetle dropped his head, 

And fell on the ground as if he were dead ; 

They crouched them close in the darksome shade. 

They quaked all o'er with awe and fear, 
For they had felt the blue-bent blade. 

And writhed at the prick of the elfin spear ; 
Many a time, on a summer's night, 
When the sky was clear and the moon was bright, 
They had been roused from the haunted ground 
By the yelp and bay of the fairy hound ; 

They had heard the tiny bugle-horn. 
They had heard the twang of the maize-silk string. 

When the vine-twig bows were tightly drawn. 

And the needle-shaft through air was borne. 
Feathered with down of the hum-bird's wing. 
And now they deemed the courier ouphe. 

Some huntei'-sprite of the elfin ground ; 
And they watched till they saw him mount the roof 

That canopies the world around ; 



590 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Then glad they left their covert lair, 
And freaked about in the midnight air. 



Up to the vaulted firmament 

His path the fire-fly courser bent, 

And at every gallop on the wind 

He flung a glittering spark behind ; 

He flies like a feather in the blast 

Till the first light cloud in heaven is past. 

But the shapes of air have begun their work, 
And a drizzly mist is round him cast ; 

He cannot see through the mantle murk ; 
He shivers with cold, but he urges fast ; 

Through storm and darkness, sleet and shade, 
fie lashes his steed, and spurs amain — 
For shadowy hands have twitched the rein. 

And flame-shot tongues around him played, 
And near him many a fiendish eye 
Glared with a fell malignity. 
And yells of rage, and shrieks of fear, 
Came screaming on his startled ear. 



His wings are wet around his breast. 
The plume hangs dripping from his crest. 
His eyes are blurred with the lightning's glare, 
And his ears are stunned with the thunder's blare ; 
But he gave a shout, and his blade he drew. 

He thrust before and he struck behind, 
Till he pierced their cloudy bodies through, 

And gashed their shadowy limbs of wind; 
Howling the misty spectres flew, 

They rend the air with frightful cries ; 
For he has gained the welkin blue. 

And the land of clouds beneath him lies. 



Up to the cope careering swift. 

In breathless motion fast, 
Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift, 

Or the sea-roc rides the blast, 
The sapphire sheet of eve is shot, • 

The sphered moon is past, 
The earth but seems a tiny blot 

On a sheet of azure cast. 
Oh ! it was sweet, in the clear moonlight, 

To tread the starry plain of even ! 



To meet the thousand eyes of night. 

And feel the cooling breath of heaven ! 
But the elfin made no stop or stay 
Till he came to the bank of the milky-way ; 
Then he checked his courser's foot, 
And watched for the glimpse of the planet-shoot. 

XXX. 

§udden along the snowy tide 

That swelled to meet their footsteps' fall. 
The sylphs of heaven were seen to glide, 

Attired in sunset's crimson pall ; 
Around the fay they weave the dance, 

They skip before him on the plain, 
And one has taken his wasp-sting lance, 

And one upholds his bridle-rein ; 
With warblings wild they lead him on 

To where, through clouds of amber seen, 
Studded with stars, resplendent shone 

The palace of the sylphid queen. 
Its spiral columns, gleaming bright. 
Were streamers of the northern light ; 
Its curtain's light and lovely flush 
Was of the morning's rosy blush ; 
And the ceiling fair that rose aboon, 
The white and feathery fleece of noon. 



But, oh ! how fair the shape that lay 

Beneath a rainbow bending bright ; 
She seemed to the entranced fay 

The loveliest of the forms of light ; 
Her mantle was the purple rolled 

At twilight in the west afar ; 
'Twas tied with threads of dawning gold, 

And buttoned with a sparkling star. 
Her face was like the lily roon 

That veils the vestal planet's hue ; 
Her eyes, two beamlets from the moon. 

Set floating in the welkin blue. 
Her hair is like the sunny beam. 
And the diamond gems which round it gleam 
Are the pure drops of dewy even 
That ne'er have left their native heaven. 



She raised her eyes to the wondering sprite, 
And they leaped with smiles ; for well I ween 



THE CULPRIT FAl. 



591 



Never before in the bowers of light 

Had the form of an earthly fay been seen. 
Long she looked in his tiny face ; 

Long with his butterfly cloak she played ; 
She smoothed his wings of azure lace, 

And handled the tassel of his blade ; 
And as he told, in accents low, 
The story of his love and woe, 
She felt new pains in her bosom rise. 
And the tear-drop started in her eyes. 
And " 0, sweet spirit of earth," she cried, 

" Return no more to your woodland height, 
But ever here with me abide 

In the land of everlasting light ! 
Within the fleecy drift we'll lie. 

We'll hang upon the rainbow's rim ; 
And all the jewels of the sky 

Around thy brow shall brightly beam ! 
And thou shalt bathe thee in the stream 

That rolls its whitening foam aboon. 
And ride upon the lightning's gleam. 

And dance upon the orbed moon ! 
We'll sit within the Pleiad ring. 

We'll rest on Orion's starry belt. 
And I will bid my sylphs to sing 

The song that makes the dew-mist melt ; 
Their harps are of the umber shade 

That hides the blush of waking day. 
And every gleamy string is made 

Of silvery moonshine's lengthened ray ; 
And thou shalt pillow on my breast, 

While heavenly breathings float around. 
And, with the sylphs of ether blest. 

Forget the joys of fairy ground." 



She was lovely and fair to see. 

And the elfin's heart beat fitfully ; 

But lovelier far, and still more fair, 

The earthly form imprinted there ; 

Naught he saw in the heavens above 

Was half so dear as his mortal love. 

For he thought upon her looks so meek. 

And he thought of the light flush on her cheek ; 

Never again might he bask and lie 

On that sweet cheek and moonlight eye ; 

But in his dreams her form to see, 

To clasp her in his revery. 



To think tipon his virgin bride, 

Was worth all heaven, and earth beside. 

XXXIV. 

" Lady," he cried, " I have sworn to-night. 

On the word of a fairy-knight, 

To do my sentence-task aright ; 

My honor scarce is free from stain — 

I may not soil its snows again ; 

Betide me weal, betide me woe. 

Its mandate must be answered now." 

Her bosom heaved with many a sigh, 

The tear was in her drooping eye ; 

But she led him to the palace gate. 

And called the sylphs who hovered there, 
And bade them fly and bring him straight. 

Of clouds condensed, a sable car. 
With charm and spell she blessed it there, 
From all the fiends of upper air ; 
Then round him cast the shadowy shroud, 
And tied his steed behind the cloud ; 
And pressed his hand as she bade him fly 
Far to the verge of the northern sky. 
For by its wane and wavering light 
There was a star would fall to-night. 

xsxv. 

Borne afar on the wings of the blast. 
Northward away, he speeds him fast. 
And his courser follows the cloudy wain 
Till the hoof-strokes fall like pattering rain. 
The clouds roll backward as he flies. 
Each flickering star behind him lies, 
And he has reached the northern plain. 
And backed his fire-fly steed again, 
Ready to follow in its flight 
The streaming of the rocket-light. 

XXXVI. 

The star is yet in the vault of heaven, 

But it rocks in the summer gale ; 
And now 'tis fitful and uneven, 

And now 'tis deadly pale ; 
And now 'tis wrapped in sulphur-smoke. 

And quenched is its rayless beam ; 
And now with a rattling thunder-stroke 

It bursts in flash and flame. 



593 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 


As swift as the glance of the arrowy lance 


The hill-tops gleam in morning's spring, 


That the storm-spirit flings from high, 


The sky-lark shakes his dappled wing. 


The star-shot flew o'er the welkin blue, 


The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn. 


As it fell from the sheeted sky. 


The cock has crowed, and the fays are gone. 


As swift as the wind in its train behind 


Joseph Eodman Bbake. 


The elfin gallops along : 




The fiends of the cloud are bellowing loud. 




But the sylphid charm is strong ; 




He gallops unhurt in the shower of fire, 


9CI)c iTairics. 


While the cloud-fiends fly from the blaze ; 




He watches each flake till its sparks expire. 


Up the airy mountain, 


And rides in the light of its rays. 


Down the rushy glen, 


But he drove his steed to the lightning's speed, 


We dare n't go a hunting 


And caught a glimmering spark ; 


For fear of little men ; 


Then wheeled around to the fairy ground. 


Wee folk, good folk. 


And sped through the midnight dark. 


Trooping all together ; 




Green jacket, red cap. 


***** 4f 


And white owl's feather ! 


Ouphe and goblin ! imp and sprite ! 




Elf of eve ! and starry fay ! 


Down along the rocky shore 


Ye that love the moon's soft light, 


Some make their home — 


Hither — hither wend your way; 


They live on crispy pancakes 


Twine ye in a jocund ring, 


Of yellow tide-foam ; 


Sing and trip it merrily, 


Some in the reeds 


Hand to hand, and wing to wing. 


Of the black mountain-lake, 


Kound the wild witch-hazel tree. 


With frogs for their watch-dogs. 




All night awake. 


Hail the wanderer again 




With dance and song, and lute and lyre ; 


High on the hill-top 


Pure his wing and strong his chain. 


The old king sits ; 


And doubly bright his fairy fire. 


He is now so old and gray 


Twine ye in an airy round. 


He 's nigh lost his wits. 


Brush the dew and print the lea ; 


With a bridge of white mist 


Skip and gambol, hop and bound. 


Columbkill he crosses. 


Round the wild witch-hazel tree. 


On his stately journeys 




From Slieveleague to Rosses ; 


The beetle guards our holy ground. 


Or going up with music 


He flies about the haunted place. 


On cold, starry nights. 


And if mortal there be found. 


To sup with the queen 


He hums in his ears and flaps his face ; 


Of the gay Northern Lights. 


The leaf-harp sounds our roundelay. 




The owlet's eyes our lanterns be ; 


They stole little Bridget 


Thus we sing, and dance, and play. 


For seven years long ; 


Round the wild witch-hazel tree. 


. When she came down again 


• 


Her friends were all gone. 


But, hark ! from tower on tree-top high, 


They took her lightly back, 


The sentry-elf his call has made ; 


Between the night and morrow ; 


A streak is in the eastern sky. 


They thought that she was fast asleep. 


Shapes of moonlight ! flit and fade ! 


But she was dead with sorrow. 



THE FAIRIES 


' FAREWELL. 593 


They have kept her ever since 


When Tom came home from labor. 


Deep within the lakes, 


Or Ciss to milking rose, 


On a bed of flag-leaves, 


Then merrily went their tabour. 


Watching till she wakes. 


And nimbly w«nt their toes. 


By the craggy hiU-side, 


Witness, those rings and roundelayes 


Through the mosses bare, 


Of theirs, which yet remaine, 


They have planted the thorn-trees 


Were footed in Queen Marie's dayes 


For pleasure here and there : 


On many a grassy playne. 


Is any man so daring 


But since of late Elizabeth, 


To dig one up in spite. 


And later James, came in. 


He shall find the thornies set 


They never danced on any heath 


In his bed at night. 


As when the time hath bin. 


Up the airy mountain. 


By which wee note the fairies 


Down the rushy glen, 


Were of the old profession ; 


We dare n't go a hunting 


Their songs were Ave-Maries, 


For fear of little men ; 


Their dances were procession. 


Wee folk, good folk. 


But, now, alas ! they all are dead, 


Trooping all together ; 


Or gone beyond the seas, 


Green jacket, red cap. 


Or farther for religion fled ; 


And white owl's feather ! 


Or else they take their ease. 


William Allingham. 






A tell-tale in their company 




They never could endure ; 




And whoso kept not secretly 


8i;i)c iTairics' £axevid\. 


Their mirth, was punished sure ; 


• 


It was a just and Christian deed 


Farewell rewards and fairies ! 


To pinch such blacke and blue : 


Good housewives now may say ; 


Oh how the commonwelth doth need 


For now foule sluts in dairies 


Such justices as you ! 


Doe fare as well as they ; 




And though they sweepe their hearths no less 


Now they have left our quarters, 


Than mayds were wont to doe, 


A register they have. 


Yet who of late for cleaneliness 


Who can preserve their charters — 


Finds sixe-pence in her shoe ? 


A man both wise and grave. 




An hundred of their merry pranks. 


Lament, lament, old abbeys. 


By one that I could name. 


The fairies' lost command ! 


Are kept in store ; con twenty thanks 


They did but change priests' babies, 


To William for the same. 


But some have changed your land ; 




And all your children, stoln from thence, 


To William Churne of Staffordshire 


Are now growne Puritanes, 


Give laud and praises due, 


Who live as changelings ever since, 


Who, every meale, can mend your cheare 


For love of your demaines. 


With tales both old and true ; 




To William all give audience. 


At morning and at evening both 


And pray yee for his noddle ; 


You merry were and glad ; 


For all the fairies' evidence 


So little care of sleepe and sloth 


Were lost if it were addle. 


These prettie ladies had. 
40 


KiCHABD COKBETT. 



594 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



®l)e ®reen (Snonte. 

Ring, sing ! ring, sing ! pleasant Sabbath bells ! 
Chime, rhyme ! chime, rhyme ! thorough dales and 

dells ! 
Rhyme, ring ! chime, sing ! pleasant Sabbath bells ! 
Chime, sing ! rhyme, ring ! over fields and fells ! 

And I galloped and I galloped on my palfrey white 

as milk. 
My robe was of the sea-green woof, my serk was of 

the silk ; 
My hair was golden yellow, and it floated to my 

shoe, 
My eyes were like two harebells bathed in little 

drops of dew ; 
My palfrey, never stopping, made a music sweetly 

blent 
With the leaves of autumn dropping all around 

me as I went ; 
And I heard the bells, grown fainter, far behind 

me peal and play. 
Fainter, fainter, fainter, till they seemed to die 

away; 
And beside a silver runnel, on a little heap of 

sand, 
I saw the green gnome sitting, with his cheek upon 

his hand. 
Then he started up to see me, and he ran with cry 

and bound, 
And drew me from my palfrey white and set me 

on the ground. 
Oh crimson, crimson were his locks, his face was 

green to see. 
But he cried, " light-haired lassie, you are bound 

to marry me ! " 
He clasped me round the middle small, he kissed 

me on the cheek, 
He kissed me once, he kissed me twice — I could 

not stir or speak ; 
He kissed me twice, he kissed me thrice — but when 

he kissed again, 
I called aloud upon the name of Him who died for 

men. 

Sing, sing ! ring, ring ! pleasant Sabbath bells ! 
Chime, rhyme ! chime, rhyme ! thorough dales and 
dells ! 



Rhyme, ring ! chime, sing ! pleasant Sabbatti 

bells ! 
Chime, sing ! rhyme, ring ! over fields and fells ! 

Oh faintly, faintly, faintly, calling men and maids 

to pray, 
So faintly, faintly, faintly rang the bells far 

away; 
And as I named the Blessed Name, as in our need 

we can. 
The ugly green, green gnome became a tall and 

comely man : 
His hands were white, his beard was gold, his eyes 

were black as sloes. 
His tunic was of scarlet woof, and silken were his 

hose; 
A pensive light from Faeryland still lingered on his 

cheek. 
His voice was like the running brook when he be- 
gan to speak : 
" Oh you have cast away the charm my step-dame 

put on me, 
Seven years I dwelt in Faeryland, and you have set 

me free. 
Oh I will mount thy palfrey white, and ride to kirk 

with thee, 
And by those little dewy eyes, we twain will wedded 

be!" 

Back we galloped, never stopping, he before and I 

behind. 
And the autumn leaves were dropping, red and 

yellow, in the wind ; 
And the sun was shining clearer, and my heart was 

high and proud. 
As nearer, nearer, nearer, rang the kirk bells sweet 

and loud. 
And we saw the kirk before us, as we trotted down 

the fells. 
And nearer, clearer, o'er us, rang the welcome of 

the bells. 

Ring, sing ! ring, sing ! pleasant Sabbath bells ! 
Chime, rhyme ! chime, rhyme ! thorough dales and 

dells ! 
Rhyme, ring ! chime, sing ! pleasant Sabbath 

bells ! 
Chime, sing ! rhyme, ring ! over fields and fells ! 

ROBBKT Buchanan. 



ARIEL'S SONGS. 



595 



^^riel's Songs. 



Come imto these yellow sands, 

And then take hands ; 
Court'sied when you have, and kissed. 

(The wild waves whist ! ) 
Foot it featly here and there ; 
And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. 
Hark, hark ! 

BowgTi, wowgh. 
The watch-dogs bark — 
Bowgli, wowgh. 
Hark, hark ! I hear 
The strain of strutting chanticleer 
Cry Cock-a-doodle-doo. 



Pull fathoms five thy father lies ; 

Of his bones are coral made ; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes ; 

Nothing of him that doth fade 
But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : 

Ding-dong. ' 
Hark ! now I hear them — ding, dong, bell ! 



Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; 
In a cowslip's bell I lie ; 
There I couch when owls do cry ; 
On the bat's back I do fly 
After summer merrily. 
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, 
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 
William: Shakespeake. 



Qon%. 

Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell. 
Lest a blacker charm compel ! 
So shall the midnight breezes swell 
With tliy deep, long, lingering knell. 

And at evening evermore. 
In a chapel on the shore. 



Shall the chaunter, sad and saintly, 
Yellow tapers burning faintly. 
Doleful masses chaunt for thee — 
Miserere Domine ! 

Hark ! the cadence dies away 
On the quiet moonlight sea ; 

The boatmen rest their oars and say, 
Miserere Domine ! 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



^[)C Coreki. 

I KNOW not what it presages, 
This heart with sadness fraught : 

'Tis a tale of the olden ages, 
That will not from my thought. 

The air grows cool, and darkles ; 

The Rhine flows calmly on ; 
The mountain summit sparkles 

In the light of the setting sun. 

There sits, in soft reclining, 

A maiden wondrous fair. 
With golden raiment shining, 

And combing her golden hair. 

With a comb of gold she combs it ; 

And combing, low singeth she — 
A song of a strange, sweet sadness, 

A wonderful melody. 

The sailor shudders, as o'er him 
The strain comes floating by ; 

He sees not the cliif s before him — 
He only looks on high. 

Ah ! round him the dark waves, flinging 
Their arms, draw him slowly down — 

And this, with her wild, sweet singing. 
The Lorelei has done. 

Heineich HEDns. (German.) 
Translation of Christopher Pearsb Ceanoh. 



596 POEMS OF THE 


' IMAGINATION. 




" Why hast thou so caressed me, 


@:i)c tOoter Cobg. 


Thou lovely water fay?" 


Alas, that moon should ever beam 


" Oh, thou need'st not alarm thee, 


To show what man should never see ! 


That thus thy form I hold ; 


I saw a maiden on a stream, 


For I only seek to warm me. 


And fair was she ! 


And the night is black and cold." 


I staid awhile, to see her throw 


" The wind to the waves is calling, 


Her tresses back, that all beset 


The moonlight is fading away ; 


The fair horizon of her brow 


And tears down thy cheek are falling, 


With clouds of Jet. 


Thou beautiful water fay ! " 


I staid a little while to view 


" The wind to the waves is calling, 


Her cheek, that wore, in place of red. 


And the moonlight grows dim on the rocks ; 


The bloom of water — tender blue, 


But no tears from mine eyes are falling. 


Daintily spread. 


'Tis the water which drips from my locks." 


I staid to watch, a little space, 


" The ocean is heaving and sobbing, 


Her parted lips, if she would sing ; 


The sea-mews scream in the spray ; 


The waters closed above her face 


And thy heart is wildly throbbing. 


With many a ring. 


Thou beautiful water fay ! " 


And still I staid a little more — 


" My heart is wildly swelling. 


Alas ! she never comes again ! 


And it beats in burning truth ; 


I throw my flowers from the shore, 


For I love thee, past all telling, 


And watch in vain. 


Thou beautiful moi-tal youth." 




Heinkich Heine. (German.) 


I know my life will fade away. 


Translation of Charles G. Lbland. 


I know that I must vainly pine ; 




For I am made of mortal clay. 




But she 's divine ! 




Thomas Hood. 


Song. 




A LAKE and a fairy boat, 


a:iie tooter £a^. 


To sail in the moonlight clear, 
And merrily we would float 


The night comes stealing o'er me. 


From the dragons that watch us here ! 


And clouds are on the sea ; 




While the wavelets rustle before me 


Thy gown should be snow-white silk ; 


With a mystical melody. 


And strings of orient pearls. 




Like gossamers dipped in milk. 


A water-maid rose singing 


Should twine with thy raven curls ! 


Before me, fair and pale ;, 




And snow-white breasts were springing. 


Red rubies should deck thy hands. 


Like fountains, 'neath her veil. 


And diamonds should be thy dower ; 




But fairies have broke their wands. 


She kissed me and she pressed me, 


And wishing has lost its power ! 


Till I wished her arms away : 


Thomas Hood. 



Il 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



597 



a:i)c tabi^ of 0l)alott. 

PART I. 

On either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of rye, 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky, 
And through the field the roads run by 

To many-towered Camelot ; 
And up and down the people go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below — 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten ; aspens quiver ; 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Through the wave that runs for ever 
By the island in the river. 

Plowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 
Overlook a space of flowers ; 
And the silent isle imbowers 

The lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veiled. 
Slide the heavy barges, trailed 
By slow horses ; and, unbailed, 
The shallop flitteth, silken-saUed, 

Skimming down to Camelot ; 
But who hath seen her wave her hand f 
Or at the casement seen her stand ? 
Or is she known in all the land — 

The lady of Shalott? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley, 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the river, winding clearly 

Down to towered Camelot ; 
And by the moon the reaper weary. 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy. 
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy 

Lady of Shalott." 

PART n. 

There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colors gay. 
She has heard a whisper say 
A curse is on her if she stay 



To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be ; 
And so she weaveth steadily, 
And little other care hath she — 

The lady of Shalott. 

And moving through a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year. 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near, 

Winding down to Camelot ; 
There the river eddy whirls ; 
And there the surly village-churls, 
And the red cloaks of market-girls, 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
An abbot on an ambling pad — 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, 
Or long-haired page, in crimson clad. 

Goes by to towered Camelot : 
And sometimes through the mirror blue 
The knights come riding, two and two : 
She hath no loyal knight and true — 

The lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights ; 
For often, through the silent nights, 
A funeral, with plumes and lights 

And music, went to Camelot ; 
Or, when the moon was overhead, 
Came two young lovers lately wed ; 
" I am half sick of shadows," said 

The lady of Shalott. 



A bow-shot from her bower-eaves 
He rode between the barley-sheaves ; 
The sun came dazzling through the leaves. 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
A red-cross knight for ever kneeled 
To a lady in his shield. 
That sparkled on the yellow field. 

Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glittered free, 
Like to some branch of stars we see 



598 POEMS OF THE 


' IMAGINATION. 


Hung in the golden galaxy. 


And down the river's dim expanse — 


The bridle-bells rang merrily, 


Like some bold seer in a trance, 


As he rode down to Camelot ; 


Seeing all his own mischance — 


And, from his blazoned baldric slung. 


With a glassy countenance 


A mighty silver bugle hung ; 


Did she look to Camelot. 


And as he rode his armor rung. 


And at the closing of the day 


Beside remote Shalott. 


She loosed the chain, and down she lay ; 




The broad stream bore her far away — 


All in the blue unclouded weather 


The lady of Shalott. 


Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather ; 




The helmet and the helmet-feather 


Lying robed in snowy white, 


Burned like one burning flame together, 


That loosely fl.ew to left and right — 


As he rode down to Camelot : 


The leaves upon her falling light — 


As often, through the purple night. 


Through the noises of the night 


Below the starry clusters bright. 


She floated down to Camelot ; 


Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 


And as the boat-head wound along. 


Moves over still Shalott. 


The wUlowy hills and fields among, 




They heard her singing her last song — 


His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed ; 


The lady of Shalott — 


On burnished hooves his war-horse trode ; 




From underneath his helmet flowed 


Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 


His coal-black curls as on he rode. 


Chanted loudly, chanted lowly — 


As he rode down to Camelot. 


Till her blood was frozen slowly. 


From the bank and from the river 


And her eyes were darkened wholly, 


He flashed into the crystal mirror : 


Turned to towered Camelot ; 


" Tirra lirra," by the river. 
Sang Sir Lancelot. 


For ere she reached, upon the tide, 


The first house by the water-side. 


Singing, in her song she died — 


She left the web, she left the loom ; 


The lady of Shalott. 


She made three paces through the room ; 


Under tower and balcony, 


She saw the water-lily bloom ; 


By garden-wall and gallery. 


She saw the helmet and the plume ; 


A gleaming shape, she floated by — 


She looked down to Camelot : 


A corse between the houses high — 


Out flew the web, and floated wide ; 


Silent, into Camelot. 


The mirror cracked from side to side ; 


Out upon the wharfs they came, 


" The curse is come upon me ! " cried 


Knight and burgher, lord and dame ; 


The lady of Shalott. 


And round the prow they read her name — 




Hie lady of Shalott. 


PART IT. 


Who is this ? and what is here ? 


In the stormy east-wind straining, 


And in the royal palace near 


The pale yellow woods were waning — 


Died the sound of royal cheer ; 


The broad stream in his banks complaining. 


And they crossed themselves for fear — 


Heavily the low sky raining ' 


All the knights at Camelot ; 


Over towered Camelot ; 


But Lancelot mused a little space : 


Down she came and found a boat, 


He said, " She has a lovely face ; 


Beneath a willow left afloat ; 


God in his mercy lend her grace — 


And round about the prow she wrote, 


The lady of Shalott ! " 


Tlie lady of Shalott. 


Alfred Tbitntson. 



COM us, A MASK 



599 



(flotnus, a iilosk. 

THE PERSONS. 

The attendant Spirit, afterwards in the habit of 

Thyrsis. 
CoMus, with his crew. 
The Lady. 
First Brother. 
Second Brother. 
Sabrcja, the Nymph. 

THE FIEST SCENE DISCOVERS A WILD WOOD. 

Tlie attendant Spirit descends or enters. 

t 

Before the starry thresliold of Jove's court 
My mansion is, where those immortal shapes 
Of bright aerial spirits live insphered 
In regions mUd of calm and serene air, 
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot, 
Which men call earth, and, with low-thoughted 

care 
Confined, and pestered in this pinfold here, 
Strive to keep up a frail and feverish being, 
Unmindful of the crown that virtue gives, 
After this mortal change to her true servants. 
Amongst the enthroned gods on sainted seats. 
Yet some there be that by due steps aspire 
To lay their just hands on that golden key 
That opes the palace of eternity. 
To such my errand is ; and, but for such, 
I would not soil these pure ambrosial weeds 
With the rank vapors of this sin-worn mould. 
But to my task : Neptune, besides the sway 
Of every salt flood and each ebbing stream, 
Took in, by lot 'twixt high and nether Jove, 
Imperial rule of all the sea-girt isles. 
That like to rich and various gems inlay 
The unadorned bosom of the deep ; 
Which he, to grace his tributary gods. 
By course commits to several government. 
And gives them leave to wear their sapphire 

crowns. 
And wield their little tridents. But this isle. 
The greatest and the best of all the main, 
He quarters to his bhie-haired deities ; 
And all this tract, that fronts the falling sun, 
A noble peer of mickle trust and power 
Has in his charge, with tempered awe to guide 
An old and haughty nation, proud in arms ; 
Where his fair offspring, nursed in princely lore. 



Are coming to attend their father's state. 

And new-intrusted sceptre ; but their way 

Lies through the perplexed paths of this drear 

wood. 
The nodding horror of whose shady brows 
Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger. 
And here their tender age might suffer peril. 
But that, by quick command from sovereign Jove, 
I was despatched for their defence and guard ; 
And listen why — for I will tell you now 
What never yet was heard in tale or song. 
From old or modern bard, in hall or bower. 

Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape 
Crushed the sweet poison of misused wine. 
After the Tuscan mariners transformed. 
Coasting the Tyrrhene shore as the winds listed. 
On Circe's island fell. Who knows not Circe, 
The daughter of the sun, whose charmed cup 
Whoever tasted lost his upright shape. 
And downward fell into a grovelling swine ? 
This nymph, that gazed upon his clustering locks. 
With ivy-berries wreathed, and his blithe youth. 
Had by him, ere he parted thence, a son 
Much like his father, but his mother more ; 
Whom therefore she brought up, and Comus 

named ; 
Who ripe, and frolic of his full-grown age, 
Eoving the Celtic and Iberian fields. 
At last betakes him to this ominous wood. 
And, in thick shelter of black shades imbowered. 
Excels his mother at her mighty art, 
Offering to every weary traveller 
His orient liquor in a crystal glass. 
To quench the drouth of Phoebus ; which as they 

taste, 
(For most do taste through fond intemp'rate thirst) 
Soon as the potion worlcs, their human counte- 
nance. 
The express resemblance of the gods, is changed 
Into some brutish form, of wolf, or bear, 
Or ounce, or tiger, hog, or bearded goat — 
AU other parts remaining as they were ; 
And they, so perfect is their misery, 
Not once perceive their foul disfigurement, 
But boast themselves more comely than before ; 
And all their friends and native home forget. 
To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty. 
Therefore, when any favored of high Jove 
Chances to pass through this adventurous glade. 



600 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Swift as the sparkle of a glancing star 

I shoot from heav'n, to give him safe convoy — 

As now I do. But first 1 must put ofE 

These my sky robes, spun out of Iris' woof, 

And take the weeds and likeness of a swain 

That to the service of this house belongs. 

Who with his soft pipe, and smooth-dittied song, 

Well knows to still the wild winds when they roar, 

And hush the waving woods ; nor of less faith, 

And, in this office of his mountain watch, 

Likeliest and nearest to the present aid, 

Of this occasion. But I hear the tread 

Of hateful steps ; I must be viewless now. 

CoMUS enters, with a charming-rod in one hand, 
his glass in the other ; with him a rout of mon- 
sters, headed like sundry sorts of wild beasts — 
iut otherwise like men and women, their apparel 
glistening ; they come in making a riotous and 
unruly noise, with torches in their hands. 

CoMus. The star that bids the shepherd fold, 
Now the top of heaven doth hold ; 
And the gilded car of day 
His glowing axle doth allay 
In the steep Atlantic stream ; 
And the slope sun his upward beam 
Shoots against the dusky pole, 
Pacing toward the other goal 
Of his chamber in the east. 
Meanwhile welcome Joy and Feast, 
Midnight Shout and Revelry, 
Tipsy Dance and Jollity. 
Braid your locks with rosy twine. 
Dropping odors, dropping wine. 
Rigor now is gone to bed. 
And Advice with scrupulous head ; 
Strict Age, and sour Severity, 
With their grave saws in slumber lie. 
We that are of purer fire 
Imitate the starry quire. 
Who in their nightly watchful spheres 
Lead in swift rounds the months and years. 
The sounds and seas, with all their finny drove, 
Now to the moon in wavering morrice move ; 
And on the tawny sands and shelves 
Trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves. 
By dimpled brook, and fountain brim. 
The wood-nymphs, decked with daisies trim. 



Their merry wakes and pastimes keep ; 

What hath night to do with sleep ? 

Night hath better sweets to prove ; 

Venus now wakes, and wakens Love. 

Come ! let us our rites begin — 

'Tis only daylight that makes us sin. 

Which these dun shades will ne'er report. 

HaU, goddess of nocturnal sport, 

Dark-veUed Cotytto ! t' whom the secret flame 

Of midnight torches burns ; mysterious dame, 

That ne'er art called but when the dragon womb 

Of Stygian darkness spets her thickest gloom, 

And makes one blot of all the air ; 

Stay thy cloudy ebon chair, 

Wherein thou I'idest with Hecate, and befriend 

Us, thy vowed priests, till utmost end 

Of all thy dues be done, and none left out, 

Ere the babbling eastern scout, 

The nice morn, on the Indian steep 

From her cabined loophole peep. 

And to the tell-tale sun descry 

Our concealed solemnity. 

Come, knit hands, and beat the ground 

In a light fantastic round ! 

THE MEASURE. 

Break off, break off ! I feel the different pace 

Of some chaste footing near about this ground. 

Run to your shrouds, within these brakes and trees ; 

Our number may affright some virgin sure, 

(For so I can distinguish by mine art). 

Benighted in these woods. Now to my charms. 

And to my wily trains ; I shall ere long 

Be well stocked, with as fair a herd as grazed 

About my mother Circe. Thus I hurl 

My dazzling spells into the spungy air. 

Of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion, 

And give it false presentments ; lest the place 

And my quaint habits breed astonishment, 

And put the damsel to suspicious flight — 

Which must not be, for that 's against my course. 

I, under fair pretence of friendly ends. 

And well-placed words of glozing courtesy, 

Baited with reasons not un plausible, 

Wind me into the easy-hearted man. 

And hug him into snares. When once her eye 

Hath met the virtue of this magic dust, 

I shall appear some harmless villager. 

Whom thrift keeps up, about his country gear. 



COMUS, A MASK. 



601 



But here she comes : I fairly step aside, 
And hearken, if I may, her business here. 

THE LADY ENTERS. 

This way the noise was, if mine ear be true — 

My best guide now ; methought it was the sound 

Of riot and ill-managed merriment. 

Such as the jocund flute or gamesome pipe 

Stirs up among the loose, unlettered hinds. 

When for their teeming flocks, and granges full. 

In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan, 

And thank the gods amiss. I should be loath 

To meet the rudeness and swilled insolence 

Of such late wassailers ; yet oh ! where else 

Shall I inform my unacquainted feet 

In the blind mazes of this tangled wood ? 

My brothers, when they saw me wearied out 

With this long way, resolving here to lodge 

Under the spreading favor of these pines. 

Stepped, as they said, to the next thicket-sido, 

To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit 

As the kind hospitable woods provide. 

They left me, then, when the gray-hooded even. 

Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed. 

Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phosbus' wain. 

But where they are, and why they came jiot back. 

Is now the labor of my thoughts ; 'tis likeliest 

They had engaged their wandering steps too far ; 

And envious darkness, ere they could return, 

Had stole them from me. Else, thievish night. 

Why shouldst thou, but for some felonious end. 

In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars. 

That nature hung in heaven, and filled their lamps 

With everlasting oil, to give due light 

To the misled and lonely traveller ? 

This is the place, as well as I may guess. 

Whence even now the tumult of loud mirth 

Was rife, and perfect in my listening ear ; 

Yet nought but single darkness do I find. 

What might this be f A thousand fantasies 

Begin to throng into my memory. 

Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire. 

And airy tongues that syllable men's names 

On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses. 

These thoughts may startle well, but not astound 

The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended 

By a strong-siding champion, conscience. 

welcome pure-eyed faith, white-handed hope — 

Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings — 



And thou, unblemished form of chastity ! 

I see ye visibly, and now believe 

That he, the supreme good, t' whom all things ill 

Are but as slavish officers of vengeance, 

Would send a glistering guardian, if need were, 

To keep my life and honor unassailed. 

Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud 

Turn forth her silver lining on the night ? 

I did not err, there does a sable cloud 

Turn forth her silver lining on the night, 

And casts a gleam over this tufted grove. 

I cannot halloo to my brothers ; but 

Such noise as I can make, to be heard farthest, 

I'll venture, for my new-enlivened spirits 

Prompt me ; and they perhaps are not far off. 

SONG. 

Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that livest unseen 

Within thy airy shell. 
By slow Meander's margent green, 
And in the violet-embroidered vale 

Where the love-lorn nightingale 
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well — 
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair 
That likest thy Narcissus are ? 
Oh, if thou have 
Hid them in some flowery cave, 
Tell me but where. 
Sweet queen of parly, daughter of the sphere ! 
So mayst thou be translated to the skies, 
And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmo- 
nies. 

Enter Comus. 

Com. Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould 
Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment? 
Sure something holy lodges in that breast. 
And with these raptures moves the vocal air 
To testify his hidden residence. 
How sweetly did they float upon the wings 
Of silence, through the empty- vaulted night — 
At every fall smoothing the raven down 
Of darkness till it smiled ! I oft have heard 
My mother Circe with the sirens three. 
Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades 
Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs, 
Who, as they sung, would take the prisoned soul, 
And lap it in Elysium ; Scylla wept. 
And chid her barking waves into attention. 



603 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause, 

Yet they in pleasing slumber lulled the sense, 

And in sweet madness robbed it of itself. 

But such a sacred and home-felt delight, 

Such sober certainty of waking bliss, 

I never heard till now. I'll speak to her. 

And she shall be my queen. Hail, foreign wonder ! 

Whom, certain, these rough shades did never breed, 

Unless the goddess that in rural shrine 

Dwellest here with Pan or Silvan, by blest song 

Forbidding every bleak unkindly fog 

To touch the prosperous growth of this tall wood ! 

Lad. Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that praise 
That is addressed to unattending ears ; 
Not any boast of skill, but extreme shift 
How to regain my severed company, 
Compelled me to awake the courteous Echo, 
To give me answer from her mossy couch. 

Com. What chance, good lady, hath bereft you 
thus? 

Lad. Dim darkness, and this leafy labyrinth. 

Com. Could that divide you from near ushering 
guides ? 

Lad. They left me weary on a grassy turf. 

Com. By falsehood, or discourtesy ? or why ? 

Lad. To seek i' th' valley some cool friendly 
spring. 

Com. And left your fair side all unguarded, 
lady? 

Lad. They were but twain, and purposed quick 
return. 

Com. Perhaps forestalling night prevented them. 

Lad. How easy my misfortune is to hit ! 

Com. Imports their loss, beside the present need ? 

Lad. No less than if I should my brothers lose. 

Com. Were they of manly prime, or youthful 
bloom ? 

Lad. As smooth as Hebe's their unrazored lips. 

Com. Two such I saw, what time the labored ox 
In his loose traces from the furrow came. 
And the swinked hedger at his supper sat ; 
I saw them, under a green mantling vine 
That crawls along the side of yon small hill. 
Plucking ripe clusters from the tend^ shoots. 
Their port was more than human, as they stood ; 
I took it for a fairy vision 
Of some gay creatures of the element, 
That in the colors of the rainbow live, 
And play i' th' plighted clouds. I was awe-struck ; 



And as I passed, I worshipped. If those you seek, 
It were a journey like the path to heaven 
To help you find them. 

Lad. Gentle villager. 
What readiest way would bring me to that place ? 

Com. Due west it rises from this shrubby point. 

Lad. To find that out, good shepherd, I suppose, 
In such a scant allowance of star-light. 
Would overtask the best land-pilot's art, 
Without the sure guess of well-practised feet. 

Com. I know each lane, and every alley green, 
Dingle or bushy dell, of this wild wood. 
And every bosky bourn from side to side — 
My daily walks and ancient neighborhood ; 
And if your stray attendants be yet lodged. 
Or shroud within these limits, I shall know 
Ere morrow wake, or the low-roosted lark 
From her thatched pallet rouse ; if otherwise, 
I can conduct you, lady, to a low 
But loyal cottage, where you may be safe 
Till further quest. 

Lad. Shepherd, I take thy word. 
And trust thy honest-offered courtesy. 
Which oft is sooner found in lowly sheds 
With smoky rafters, than in tap'stry halls 
And courts of princes, where it iirst was named, 
And yet is most pretended ; in a place 
Less warranted than this, or less secure, 
I cannot be, that I should fear to change it. 
Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial 
To my proportioned strength. Shepherd, lead on ! 

Enter The Two Brothers. 

1 Br. Unmufde, ye faint stars ! and thou, fair 
moon, 

That wont'st to love the traveller's benison, 

Stoop thy pale visage through an amber cloud, 

And disinherit Chaos, that reigns here 

In double night of darkness and of shades ; 

Or if your influence be quite dammed up 

With black usurping mists, some gentle taper, 

Though a rush candle from the wicker-hole 

Of some clay habitation, visit us 

With thy long-levelled rule of streaming light ; 

And thou shalt be our star of Arcady, 

Or Tyrian cynosure. 

2 Br. Or if our eyes 

Be barred that happiness, might we but hear 
The folded flocks penned in their wattled cotes. 



COMUS, A MASK. 



603 



Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops, 
Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock 
Count the night watches to his feathery dames, 
'Twould be some solace yet, some little cheering 
In this close dungeon of innumerous boughs. 
But oh that hapless vu-gin, our lost sister ! 
Where may she wander now, whither betake her 
From the chill dew, among rude burs and thistles ? 
Perhaps some cold bank is her bolster now ; 
Or 'gainst the rugged bark of some broad elm 
Leans her unpillowed head, fraught with sad fears ; 
What if in wild amazement and affright, 
Or, while we speak, within the direful grasp 
Of savage hunger, or of savage heat ? 

1 Br. Peace, brother ! be not over-exquisite 
To cast the fashion of uncertain evils ; 

For grant they be so — while they rest unknown. 

What need a man forestall his date of grief. 

And run to meet what he would most avoid ? 

Or if they be but false alarms of fear, 

How bitter is such self-delusion ! 

I do not think my sister so to seek. 

Or so unprinciijled in virtue's book, 

And the sweet peace that goodness bosoms ever. 

As that the single want of light and noise 

(Not being in danger, as I trust she is not) 

Could stir the constant mqod of her calm thoughts, 

And put them into misbecoming plight. 

Virtue could see to do what virtue would 

By her own radiant light, though sun and moon 

Were in the flat sea sunk. And wisdom's self 

Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude. 

Where, with her best nurse, contemplation. 

She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings, 

That in the various bustle of resort 

Were ail-too ruflled, and sometimes impaired. 

He that has light within his own clear breast 

May sit i' th' centre, and enjoy bright day ; 

But he that hides a dark soul, and foul thoughts. 

Benighted walks imder the mid-day sun ; 

Himself is his own dungeon. 

2 Br. 'Tis most true, 

That musing meditation most affects 

The pensive secrecy of desert cell. 

Far from the cheerful haunt of men and herds, 

And sits as safe as in a senate-house ; 

For who would rob a hermit of his weeds. 

His few books, or his beads, or maple dish. 

Or do his gray hairs any violence ? 



But beauty, like the fair Hesperian tree 
Laden with blooming gold, had need the guard 
Of dragon watch with unenchanted eye, 
To save her blossoms, and defend her fruit, 
From the rash hand of bold incontinence. 
You may as well spread out the unsunned heaps 
Of miser's treasure by an outlaw's den, 
And tell me it is safe, as bid me hope 
Danger wUl wink on opportunity, 
And let a single helpless maiden pass 
Uninjured in this wild surrounding waste. 
Of night, or loneliness, it recks me not ; 
I fear the dread events that dog them both. 
Lest some ill-greeting touch attempt the person 
Of our unowned sister. 

1 Br. I do not, brother. 

Infer as if I thought my sister's state 
Secure without all doubt, or controversy ; 
Yet where an equal poise of hope and fear 
Does arbitrate th' event, my nature is 
That I incline to hope, rather than fear. 
And gladly banish squint suspicion. 
My sister is not so defenceless left 
As you imagine ; she has hidden strength, 
Which you remember not. 

2 Br. What hidden strength. 

Unless the strength of heaven, if you mean that ? 

1 Br. I mean that too, but yet a hidden strength. 
Which, if heaven gave it, may be termed her own ; 
'Tis chastity, my brother, chastity : 
She that has that is clad in complete steel. 
And like a quivered nymph with arrows keen 
May trace huge forests, and unharbored heaths, 
Infamous hills and sandy perilous wilds, 
Where, through the sacred rays of chastity, 
No savage fierce, bandit, or mountaineer. 
Will dare to soil her virgin purity ; 
Yea there, where very desolation dwells 
By grots, and caverns shagged with horrid shades. 
She may pass on with unblenched majesty. 
Be it not done in pride, or in presumption. 
Some say no evil thing that walks by night, 
In fog, or fire, by lake, or moorish fen. 
Blue, meagre hag, or stubborn, unlaid ghost. 
That breaks his magic chains at curfew-time. 
No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine. 
Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity. 
Do ye believe me yet, or shall I call 
Antiquity from the old schools of Greece 



604 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



To testify the arms of Chastity ? 

Hence had the huntress Dian her dread bow, 

Fair silver-shafted queen, forever chaste, 

Wherewith she tamed the brinded lioness 

And spotted mountain pard, but set at naught 

The frivolous bolt of Cupid ; gods and men 

Feared her stern frown, and she was queen o' the 

woods. 
What was that snaky-headed Gorgon shield 
That wise Minerva wore, unconquered virgin. 
Wherewith she f reezed her foes to congealed stone, 
But rigid looks of chaste austerity, 
And noble grace that dashed brute violence 
With sudden adoration, and blank awe? 
So dear to Heaven is saintly chastity. 
That when a soul is found sincerely so 
A thousand liveried angels lackey her. 
Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, 
And in clear dream, and solemn vision. 
Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear. 
Till oft converse with heavenly habitants 
Begins to cast a beam on th' outward shape, 
The unpolluted temple of the mind. 
And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence. 
Till all be made immortal ; but when lust. 
By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk. 
But most by lewd and lavish act of sin. 
Lets in defilement to the inward parts. 
The soul grows clotted by contagion, 
Imbodies and imbrutes, till she quite lose 
The divine property of her first being. 
Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp. 
Oft seen in charnel vaults, and sepulchres. 
Lingering, and sitting by a new-made grave. 
As loath to leave the body that it loved, 
And linked itself by carnal sensuality 
To a degenerate and degraded state. 

2 Be. How cha,rming is divine philosophy ! 
Not harsh, and crabbed, as dull fools suppose, ■ 
But musical as is Apollo's lute, 
And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets. 
Where no crude surfeit reigns. 

1 Br. List ! list ! I hear 

Some far-off halloo break the silent aiV. 

2 Bb. Methought so, too ; what should it be? 
1 Br. For certain 

Either some one like us, night-foundered here, 
Or else some neighbor woodman ; or, at worst, 
Some roving robber calling to his fellows. 



2 Br. Heaven keep my sister. Again, again, and 
near; 
Best draw, and stand upon our guard. 

1 Br. I'll halloo ; 

If he be friendly, he comes well ; if not. 
Defence is a good cause, and Heaven be for us. 

The attendant Spirit, habited like a Shepherd. 

That halloo I should know, what are you ? speak ; 
Come not too near, you fall on iron stakes else. 
Spi. What voice is that ? my young lord ? speak 
again. 

2 Br. brother, 'tis my father's shepherd, sure. 
1 Br. Thyrsis? whose artful strains have oft 

delayed 
The huddling brook to hear his madrigal. 
And sweetened every musk-rose of the dale. 
How cam'st thou here, good swain ? hath any ram 
Slipt from the fold, or young kid lost his dam. 
Or straggling wether the pent flock forsook ? 
How could'st thou find this dark sequestered nook ? 

Spi. my loved master's heir, and his next joy, 
I came not here on such a trivial toy 
As a strayed ewe, or to pursue the stealth 
Of pilfering wolf ; not all the fleecy wealth 
That doth enrich these downs is worth a thought 
To this my errand, and the care it brought. 
But oh, my virgin lady, where is she? 
How chance she is not in your company ? 

1 Br. To tell thee sadly, shepherd, without 
blame. 
Or our neglect, we lost her as we came. 

Spi. Aye me unhappy ! then my fears are true. 

1 Br. What fears, good Thyrsis ? Prithee brief- 
ly shew. 

Spi. I'll tell ye ; 'tis not vain or fabulous 
(Though so esteemed by shallow ignorance) 
What the sage poets, taught by th' heavenly muse. 
Storied of old in high immortal verse, 
Of dire chimeras and enchanted isles. 
And rifted rocks whose entrance leads to hell ; 
For such there be, but unbelief is blind. 

Within the navel of this hideous wood. 
Immured in cypress shades a sorcerer dwells, 
Of Bacchus and of Circe born, great Comus, 
Deep skilled in all his mother's witcheries ; 
And here to every thirsty wanderer 
By sly enticement gives his baneful cup, 
With many murmurs mixed, whose pleasing poison 



COMUS, A MASK. 



605 



The visage quite transforms of him that drinks, 
And the inglorioiis likeness of a beast 
Fixes instead, unmoulding reason's mintage 
Charactered in the face ; this have I learnt 
Tending my flocks hard by i' th' hilly crofts, 
That brow this bottom glade, whence night by night 
He and his monstrous rout are heard to howl 
Like stabled wolves, or tigers at their prey, 
Doing abhorred rites to Hecate 
In their obscured haunts of inmost bowers. 
Yet have they many baits, and guileful speUs, 
To inveigle and invite th' unwary sense 
Of them that pass unweeting by the way. 
This evening late, by then the chewing flocks 
Had ta'en their supper on the savoiy herb 
Of knot-grass dew-besprint, and were in fold, 
I sat me down to watch upon a bank 
With ivy canopied, and interwove 
With flaunting honeysuckle, and began. 
Wrapt in a pleasing fit of melancholy, 
To meditate my rural minstrelsy. 
Till fancy had her fill ; but ere a close, 
The wonted roar was up amidst the woods, 
And filled the air with barbarous dissonance ; 
At which I ceased, and listened them awhile, 
TiU an unusual stop of sudden silence 
Gave respite to the drowsy flighted steeds 
That draw the litter of close-curtained sleep ; 
At last a soft and solemn breathing sound 
Rose like a steam of rich distilled perfumes. 
And stole upon the air, that even silence 
Was took ere she was ware, and wished she might 
Deny her nature, and be never more. 
Still to be so displaced. I was all ear, 
And took in strains that might create a soul 
Under the ribs of death ; but oh, ere long. 
Too well I did perceive it was the voice 
Of my most honored lady, your dear sister. 
Amazed I stood, harrowed with grief and fear ; 
And poor hapless nightingale, thought I, 
How sweet thou sing'st, how near the deadly snare ! 
Then down the lawns I ran with headlong haste. 
Through paths and turnings often trod by day. 
Till guided by mine ear I found the place, 
Wliere that damned wizard, hid in sly disguise, 
(For so by certain signs I knew) had met 
Already, ere my best speed could prevent, 
The aidless innocent lady, his wished prey. 
Who gently asked if he had seen such two, 



Supposing him some neighbor villager. 
Longer I durst not stay, but soon I guessed 
Ye were the two she meant ; with that I sprung 
Into swift flight, till I had found you here — 
But further know I not. 

2 Br. O night and shades. 
How are ye joined with hell in triple knot. 
Against the unarmed weakness of one virgin, 
Alone and helpless ! Is this the confidence 
You gave me, brother 1 

1 Br. Yes, and keep it still. 
Lean on it safely ; not a period 
Shall be unsaid for me ; against the threats 
Of malice or of sorcery, or that power 
Which erring men call chance, this I hold firm, 
Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt. 
Surprised by unjust force, but not enthralled ; 
Yea, even that which mischief meant most harm. 
Shall in the happy trial prove most glory ; 
But evil on itself shall back recoil, 
And mis no more with goodness, when at last. 
Gathered like scum, and settled to itself, 
It shall be in eternal, restless change 
Self -fed, and self-consumed ; if this fail, 
The pillared firmament is rottenness. 
And earth's base buUt on stubble. But come, let 's 

on. 
Against th' opposing will and arm of Heaven 
May never this just sword be lifted up ; 
But for that damned magician, let him be girt 
With all the grisly legions that troop 
Under the sooty flag of Acheron, 
Harpies and hydras, or all the monstrous forms 
Twixt Africa and Ind, I'll find him out. 
And force him to restore his purchase back, 
Or drag him by the curls to a foul death. 
Cursed as his life. 

Spi. Alas ! good venturous youth, 
I love thy courage yet, and bold emprise ; 
But here thy sword can do thee little stead. 
Far other arms and other weapons must 
Be those that quell the might of hellish charms ; 
He with his bare wand can unthread thy joints, 
And crumble all thy sinews. 

1 Br. Why, prithee, shepherd. 
How durst thou then thyself approach so near 
As to make this relation? 

Spi. Care, and utmost shifts 
How to secure the lady from surprisal. 



606 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Brought to my mind a certain shepherd lad, 

Of small i-egard to see to, yet well skilled 

In every virtuous plant and healing herb 

That spreads her verdant leaf to th' morning ray : 

He loved me well, and oft would beg me sing. 

Which when I did, he on the tender grass 

"Would sit, and hearken even to ecstasy, 

And in requital ope his leathern scrip. 

And shew me simples of a thousand names. 

Telling their strange and vigorous faculties. 

Among the rest a small unsightly root. 

But of divine effect, he culled me out ; 

The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it, 

But in another country, as he said, 

Bore a bright golden flower, but not in this soil — 

Unknown, and like esteemed, and the dull swain 

Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon ; 

And yet more medicinal is it than that moly 

That Hermes once to wise Ulysses gave : 

He called it haamony, and gave it me. 

And bade me keep it as of sovereign use 

'Gainst all enchantments, mildew, blast, or damp, 

Or ghastly furies' apparition. 

I pursed it up ; but little reckoning made. 

Till now that this extremity compelled ; 

But now I find it true ; for by this means 

1 knew the foul enchanter, though disguised, 

Entered the very lime-twigs of his spells, 

And yet came off ; if you have this about you 

(As I will give you when we go), you may 

Boldly assault the necromancer's hall ; 

Where if he be, with dauntless hardihood 

And brandished blade, rush on him, break his glass, 

And shed the luscious liquor on the ground, 

But seize his wand ; though he and his cursed crew 

Pierce sign of battle make, and menace high. 

Or, like the sons of Vulcan, vomit smoke. 

Yet will they soon retire if he but shrink. 

1 Br. Thyrsis, lead on apace, I'll follow thee. 
And some good angel bear a shield before us. 

The scene changes to a stately palace, set Out with 
all manner of deliciousness ; soft music, tables 
spread with all dainties, Comus appears with 
his rabble, and the Lady set in ah enchanted 
chair, to whom he offers his glass, which she puts 
by, and goes about to rise. 

Com. Nay, lady, sit ! if I but wave this wand. 
Your nerves are all chained up in alabaster, 



And you a statue, or as Daphne was 
Root-bound, that fled Apollo. 

Lad. Pool, do not boast ! 
Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind 
With all thy charms, although this corporal rind 
Thou hast immanacled, while Heaven sees good. 

Com. Why are you vexed, lady ? why do you 
frown ? 
Here dwell no frowns, nor anger ; from these gates 
Sorrow flies far ; see, here be all the pleasures 
That fancy can beget on youthful thoughts. 
When the fresh blood grows lively, and returns 
Brisk as the April buds in primrose-season. 
And first behold this cordial julep here. 
That flames and dances in his crystal bounds. 
With spirits of balm and fragrant syrups mixed ; 
Not that Nepenthes, which the wife of Thone 
In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena, 
Is of such power to stir up joy as this, 
To life so friendly, or so cool to thirst. 
Why should you be so cruel to yourself, 
And to those dainty limbs which nature lent 
Por gentle usage, and soft deUcacy % 
But you invert the covenants of her trust. 
And harshly deal, like an ill borrower. 
With that which you received on other terms. 
Scorning the unexempt condition 
By which all mortal frailty must subsist, 
Refreshment after toil, ease after pain. 
That have been tired aU day without repast. 
And timely rest have wanted ; but fair virgin, 
This will restore all soon. 

Lad. 'Twill not, false traitor — 
'Twill not restore the truth and honesty 
That thou hast banished from thy tongue with lies. 
Was this the cottage, and the safe abode. 
Thou told'st me of ? What grim aspects are these. 
These ugly-headed monsters ? Mercy guard me ! 
Hence with thy brewed enchantments, foul de- 
ceiver ! 
Hast thou betrayed my credulous innocence 
With visored falsehood and base forgery ? 
And would'st thou seek again to trap me here 
With liquorish baits, fit to insnare a brute ? 
Were it a draft for Juno when she banquets, 
I would not taste thy treasonous offer ; none 
But such as are good men can give good things. 
And that which is not good is not delicious 
To a well-governed and wise appetite. 



COMUS, A MASK. 



607 



Com. Oh foolishness of men ! that lend their ears 
To those budge doctors of the Stoic fur, 
And fetch their precepts from the Cynic tub, 
Praising the lean and sallow abstinence. 
Wherefore did nature pour her bounties forth 
With such a full and unwithdrawing hand. 
Covering the earth with odors, fruits, and flocks, 
Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable. 
But all to please, and sate the curious taste ? 
And set to work millions of spinning worms. 
That in their green shops weave the smooth-haired 

silk 
To deck her sons ; and that no corner might 
Be vacant of her plenty, in her own loins 
She hutcht th' all-worshipped ore, and precious 

gems 
To store her children with : if all the world 
Should in a fit of temp'rance feed on pulse, 
Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but 

frieze, 
Th' ail-giver would be unthanked, would be un- 

praised, 
Not half his riches known, and yet despised, 
And we should serve him as a grudging master, 
As a penurious niggard of his wealth. 
And live like nature's bastards, not her sons, 
Wlio would be quite surcharged with- her own 

weight. 
And strangled with her waste fertility, 
Th' earth cumbered, and the winged air darked 

with plumes. 
The herds would over-multitude their lords, 
The sea o'erfraught would swell, and th' unsought 

diamonds 
"WojLild so imblaze the forehead of the deep, 
And so bestud the stars, that they below 
"Would grow inured to light, and come at last 
To gaze upon the sun with shameless brows. 
List, lady, be not coy, and be not cozened 
With that same vaunted name, virginity. 
Beauty is nature's coin, must not be hoarded, 
But must be current, and the good thereof 
Consists in mutual and partaken bliss. 
Unsavory in th' enjoyment of itself ; 
If you let slip time, like a neglected rose 
It withers on the stalk with languished head. 
Beauty is nature's brag, and must be shewn 
In courts, at feasts, and high solemnities, 
"Where most may wonder at the workmanship ; 



It is for homely features to keep home, 
They had their name thence ; coarse complexions 
And cheeks of sorry grain will serve to ply 
The sampler, and to tease the housewife's wool. 
"What need a vermeil-tinctured lip for that, 
Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn ? 
There was another meaning in these gifts ; 
Think what, and be advised, you are but young yet. 
Lad. I had not thought to have unlocked my lips 
In this unhallowed air, but that this juggler 
"Would think to charm my judgment, as mine eyes, 
Obtruding false rules pranked in reason's garb. 
I hate when vice can bolt her arguments. 
And virtue has no tongue to check her pride. 
Impostor, do not charge most innocent nature 
As if she would her children should be riotous 
With her abundance ; she, good cateress, 
Means her provision only to the good, 
That live according to her sober laws, 
And holy dictate of spare temperance ; 
If every just man, that now pines with want. 
Had but a moderate and beseeming share 
Of that which lewdly pampered luxury 
Now heaps upon some few with vast excess. 
Nature's full blessings would be well dispensed 
In unsuperfluous even proportion. 
And she no whit encumbered with her store ; 
And then the giver would be better thanked, 
His praise due paid ; for swinish gluttony 
Ne'er looks to heaven amidst his gorgeous feast. 
But with besotted base ingratitude 
Crams, and blasphemes his feeder. Shall I go on? 
Or have I said enough ? To him that dares 
Arm his profane tongue with contemptuous words 
Against the sun-clad power of chastity. 
Fain would I something say, yet to what end ? 
Thou hast not ear, nor soiU, to apprehend 
The sublime notion and high mystery 
That must be uttered to unfold the sage 
And serious doctrine of virginity ; 
And thou art worthy that thou should'st not know 
More happiness than this thy present lot. 
Enjoy your dear wit, and gay rhetoric, 
That hath so well been taught her dazzling fence. 
Thou art not fit to hear thyself convinced ; 
Yet should I try, the uncontrolled worth 
Of this pure cause would kindle my rapt spirits 
To such a flame of sacred vehemence 
That dumb things would be moved to sympathize. 



608 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



And the brute earth would lend her nerves, and 

shake, 
Till all thy magic structures, reared so high, 
Were shattered into heaps o'er thy false head. 

Com. She fables not ; I feel that I do fear 
Her words set ofE by some superior power ; 
And though not mortal, yet a cold shuddering 

dew 
Dips me all o'er, as when the wrath of Jove 
Speaks thunder, and the chains of Erebus, 
To some of Saturn's crew. I must dissemble. 
And try her yet more strongly. Come, no 

more; 
This is mere moral babble, and direct 
Against the canon laws of our foundation ; 
I must not suffer this ; yet 'tis but the lees 
And settlings of a melancholy blood : 
But this will cure all straight ; one sip of this 
Will bathe the drooping spirits in delight 
Beyond the bliss of dreams. Be wise, and taste — 

The Brothers rush in ivith swords drawn, wrest 
his glass out of his hand, and break it against 
the ground ; his rout make sign of resistance, 
but are all driven in ; the attendant Spirit comes 
in. 

Spi. What! have you let the false enchanter 
'scape ? 
Oh ye mistook ! ye should have snatched his wand 
And bound him fast : without his rod reversed, 
And backward mutters of dissevering power. 
We cannot free the lady that sits here 
In stony fetters fixed, and motionless. 
Yet stay ! be not disturbed ; now I bethink me. 
Some other means I have which may be used. 
Which once of MelibcEus old I learnt. 
The soothest shepherd that e'er piped on plains. 

There is a gentle nymph not far from hence. 
That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn 

stream ; 
Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure ; 
Whilome she was the daughter of Locrine, 
That had the sceptre from his father Brute. 
Slie, guileless damsel, flying the mad pursuit 
Of her enraged stepdame, Guendolen,* 
Commended her fair innocence to the flood, 
That stayed her flight with his cross-flowing course. 
The water-nymphs that in the bottom played, 
Held up their pearled wrists and took her in. 



Bearing her straight to aged Nereus' hall, 

Who, piteous of her woes, reared her lank head. 

And gave her to his daughters to imbathe 

In nectared lavers strewed with asphodil, 

And through the porch and inlet of each sense 

Dropt in ambrosial oils till she revived. 

And underwent a quick immortal change. 

Made goddess of the river ; still she retains 

Her maiden gentleness, and oft at eve 

Visits the herds along the twilight meadows, 

Helping all urchin blasts, and ill-luck signs 

That the shrewd meddling elf delights to make, 

Which she with precious vialed liquors heals ; 

For which the shepherds, at their festivals, 

Carol her goodness loud in rustic lays, 

And throw sweet garland wreaths into her stream. 

Of pansies, pinks, and gaudy daffodils. 

And, as the old swain said, she can unlock 

The clasping charm, and thaw the mumming 

spell. 
If she be right invoked in warbled song ; 
For maidenhood she loves, and wiU be swift 
To aid a virgin, such as was herself, 
In hard besetting need ; this will I try, 
And add the power of some adjuring verse, 

SONG. 

Sabrina fair. 

Listen where thou art sitting 
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, 

In twisted braids of lilies knitting 
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair ; 

Listen, for dear honor's sake, 

Goddess of the silver lake, 
Listen and save ! 
Listen, and appear to us 
In name of great Oceanus ; 
By th' earth-shaking Neptune's mace. 
And Tethy's grave majestic pace ; 
By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look. 
And the Carpathian wizard's hook ; 
By scaly Triton's winding shell. 
And old sooth-saying Glaucus' spell ; 
By Leucothea's lovely hands. 
And her son that rules the strands ; 
By Thetis' tinsel-slippered feet. 
And the songs of sirens sweet ; 
By dead Parthenope's dear tomb, 
And fair Ligea's golden comb. 



COMUS, . 


A MASK. 


609 


Wherewith she sits on diamond rocks, 


May thy brimmed waves for this 




Sleeking her soft alluring locks ; 


Their full tribute never miss 




By all the nymphs that nightly dance 


From a thousand petty rills. 




Upon thy streams with wily glance — 


That tumble down the snowy hills ; 




Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy head 


Summer drought, or singed air, 




From thy coral-paven bed, 


Never scorch thy tresses fair. 




And bridle in thy headlong wave. 


Nor wet October's torrent flood 




Till thou oiir summons answered have. 


Thy molten crystal fill with mud ; 




Listen and save ! 


May thy bUlows roll ashore 
The beryl, and the golden ore ; 




Sabrina rises, attended ly water - nympJis, and 


May thy lofty head be crowned 




sings. 


With many a tower and terrace round. 




By the rushy-fringed bank, 


And here and there thy banks upon 




Where grows the willow and the osier dank 


With groves of myrrh and cinnamon. 




My sliding chariot stays, 


Come, lady ! while heaven lends us grace, 




Thick set with agate, and the azure sheen 


Let us fly this cursed place, 




Of turkois blue, and emerald green, 


Lest the sorcerer us entice 




That in the channel strays ; 


With some other new device. 




Whilst from ofE the waters fleet 


Not a waste or needless sound, 




Thus I set my printless feet 


Till we come to holier ground ; 




O'er the cowslip's velvet head, 


I shall be your faithful guide 




That bends not as I tread ; 


Through this gloomy covert wide ; 




Gentle swain, at thy request 


And not many furlongs thence 




I am here. 


Is your father's residence, 




Spi. Goddess dear. 


Where this night are met in state 




We implore thy powerful hand 


Many a friend to gratulate 




To undo the charmed band 


His wished presence, and beside 




Of true virgin here distressed, 


All the swains that near abide. 




Through the force and through the wile 


With jigs and rural dance resort ; 




Of unblest enchanter vUe. 


We shaU catch them at their sport. 




Sab. Shepherd, 'tis my ofiBlce best 


And our sudden coming there 




To help ensnared chastity : 


Will double all their mirth and cheer ; 




Brightest lady, look on me ! 


Come, let us haste, the stars grow high. 




Thus I sprinkle on thy breast 


But night sits monarch yet in the mid sky. 




Drops that from my fountain pure 






I have kept of precious cure. 


The scene changes, presenting Ludlow town 


and 


Thrice upon thy fingers' tip, 


the president's castle; then come in country 1 


Thrice \ipon thy rubied lip ; 


dancers; after them the attendant Spirit, 


with 


Next this marble venomed seat, 


the two Brothers and the Lady. 




Smeared with gums of glutinous heat, 


• 




I touch with chaste palms moist and cold : 


SONG. 




Now the spell hath lost his hold ; 


Spi. Back, shepherds, back ! enough your 


play 


And I must haste ere morning hour 


Till next sunshine holiday ; 




To wait in Amphitrite's bower. 


Here be without duck or nod 
Other trippings to be trod — 
Of lighter toes, and such court guise 




Sabrina descends, and the Lady rises out of Tier 
seat. 




As Mercury did first devise 




Spi. Virgin, daughter of Locrine, 


With the mincing Dryades 




Sprung from old Anchises' line, 
41 


On the lawns, and on the leas. 





610 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



This second song presents them to their father and 
mother. 

Noble lord, and lady bright, 
I have brought ye new delight ; 
Here behold, so goodly grown. 
Three fair branches of your own ; 
Heaven hath timely tried their youth. 
Their faith, their patience, and their truth, 
And sent them here through hard essays, 
With a crown of deathless praise, 
To triumph in victorious dance 
• O'er sensual folly and intemperance. 

The dances ended, the Spirit epiloguizes. 

Spi. To the ocean now I fly, 
And those happy climes that lie 
Where day never shuts his eye. 
Up in the broad fields of the sky. 
There I suck the liquid air 
All amidst the gardens fair 
Of Hesperus, and his daughters three 
That sing about the golden tree. 
Along the crisped shades and bowers 
Revels the spruce and jocund spring ; 
The Graces, and the rosy-bosomed Hours, 
Thither all their bounties bring ; 
There eternal summer dwells. 
And west-winds with musky wing 
About the cedared alleys fling 
Nard and cassia's balmy smells. 
Iris there with humid bow 
Waters the odorous banks that blow 
Flowers of more mingled hue 
Than her purfled scarf can shew, 
And drenches with Elysian dew 
(List, mortals, if your ears be true) 
Beds of hyacinth and roses. 
Where young Adonis oft reposes, 
Waxing well of his deep wound 
In slumber soft, and on the ground 
Sadly sits th' Assyrian queen ; 
But far above, in spangled sheen. 
Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced. 
Holds his dear Psyche sweet entranced. 
After her wand'ring labors long. 
Till free consent the gods among 
Make her his eternal bride. 
And from her fair unspotted side 



Two blissful twins are to be born. 
Youth and Joy ; so Jove hath sworn. 

But now my task is smoothly done ; 
I can fly, or I can run, 
Quickly to the green earth's end. 
Where the bowed welkin low doth bend. 
And from thence can soar as soon 
To the corners of the moon. 

Mortals that would foUow me, 
Love virtue ; she alone is free ; 
She can teach ye how to climb 
Higher than the sphery chime ; 
Or, if virtue feeble were, 
Heaven itself would stoop to her. 

John Milton. 



Storm-wearied Argo slept upon the water. 
No cloud was seen ; on blue and craggy Ida 
The hot noon lay, and on the plain's enamel ; 
Cool, in his bed, alone, the swift Scamander. 
" Why should I haste ? " said young and rosy 

Hylas : 
" The seas were rough, and long the way from 

Colchis. 
Beneath the snow-white awning slumbers Jason, 
Pillowed upon his tame Thessalian panther ; 
The shields are piled, the listless oars suspended 
On the black thwarts, and all the hairy bondsmen 
Doze on the benches. They may wait for water. 
Till I have bathed in mountain-bom Scamander." 

So said, unfilleting his purple chlamys, 
And putting down his urn, he stood a moment. 
Breathing the faint, warm odor of the blossoms 
That spangled thick the lovely Dardan meadows. 
Then, stooping lightly, loosened he his buskins, 
And felt with shrinking feet the crispy verdure ; 
Naked, save one light robe that from his shoulder 
Hung to his knee, the youthful flush revealing 
Of warm, white limbs, half-nerved with coming 

manhood. 
Yet fair and smooth with tenderness of beauty. 
Now to the river's sandy marge advancing. 
He dropped the robe, and raised his head exulting 
In the clear sunshine, that with beam embracing 
Held him against Apollo's glowing bosom. 



HYLAS. 



611 



For sacred to Latona's son is beauty, 
Sacred is youth, the joy of youthful feeling. 
A joy indeed, a living joy, was Hylas, 
Whence Jove-begotten Heracles, the mighty. 
To men though terrible, to him was gentle, 
Smoothing his rugged nature into laughter 
When the boy stole his club, or from his shoulders 
Dragged the huge paws of the Nemaean lion. 

The thick, brown locks, tossed backward from his 

forehead. 
Fell soft about his temples ; manhood's blossom 
Not yet had sprouted on his chin, but freshly 
Curved the fair cheek, and full the red lips parting. 
Like a loose bow, that just has launched its arrow. 
His large blue eyes, with joy dilate and beamy. 
Were clear as the unshadowed Grecian heaven ; 
Dewy and sleek his dimpled shoulders rounded 
To the white arms and whiter breast between them. 
Downward, the supple lines had less of softness : 
His back was like a god's ; his loins were moulded 
As if some pulse of power began to waken ; 
The springy fulness of his thighs, outswerving. 
Sloped to his knee, and, lightly dropping downward. 
Drew the curved lines that breathe, in rest, of mo- 
tion. 

He saw his glorious limbs reversely mirrored 
In the still wave, and stretched his foot to press it 
On the smooth sole that answered at the surface : 
Alas ! the shape dissolved in glimmering frag- 
ments. 
Then, timidly at first, he dipped, and catching 
Quick breath, with tingling shudder, as the waters 
Swirled round his thighs, and deeper, slowly deeper. 
Till on his breast the river's cheek was pillowed. 
And deeper still, till every shoreward ripple 
Talked in his ear, and like a cygnet's bosom 
His white, round shoulder shed the dripping crys- 
tal. 
There, as he floated, with a rapturous motion 
The lucid coolness folding close around him. 
The lily-cradled ripples murmured, " Hylas ! " 
He shook from off his ears the hyacinthine 
Curls, that had lain unwet upon the water. 
And still the ripples murmured, " Hylas, Hylas !" 
He thought : " The voices are but ear-born music. 
Pan dwells not here, and Echo still is calling 
From some high clifE that tops a Thracian valley ; 



So long mine ears, on tumbling Hellespontus, 
Have heard the sea-waves hammer Argo's fore- 
head. 
That I misdeem the fluting of this current 
For some lost nymph — " Again the murmur, 

" Hylas ! " 
And with the sound a cold, smooth arm around 

him 
Slid like a wave, and down the clear, green dark- 
ness 
Glimmered on either side a shining bosom — 
Glimmered, uprising slow ; and ever closer 
Wound the cold arms, till, climbing to his shoul- 
ders, 
Their cheeks lay nestled, while the purple tangles, 
Their loose hair made, in silken mesh enwound 

him. 
Their eyes of clear, pale emerald then uplifting, 
They kissed his neck with lips of humid coral. 
And once again there came a murmur : " Hylas ! 
Oh, come with us ! Oh, follow where we wander 
Deep down beneath the green, translucent celling — 
Where on the sandy bed of old Scamander 
With cool white buds we braid our purple tresses. 
Lulled by the bubbling waves around us stealing ! 
Thou fair Greek boy, oh come with us ! Oh, follow 
Where thou no more shalt hear Propontis riot. 
But by our arms be lapped in endless quiet, 
Within the glimmering caves of ocean hollow 1 
W^e have no love ; alone of all the immortals, 
We have no love. Oh, love us, we who press thee 
With faithful arms, though cold, — whose lips ca- 
ress thee, — 
Who hold thy beauty prisoned ! Love us, Hylas ! " 
The sound dissolved in liquid murmurs, calling 
Still as it faded, " Come with us ! Oh follow ! " 

The boy grew chill to feel their twining pressure 
Lock round his limbs, and bear him, vainly striv- 
ing, 
Down from the noonday brightness. " Leave me, 

naiads ! 
Leave me ! " he cried ; " the day to me is dearer 
Than all your caves deep-sphered in ocean's quiet. 
I am but mortal, seek but mortal pleasure : 
I would not change this flexile, warm existence. 
Though swept by storms, and shocked by Jove's 

dread thunder. 
To be a king beneath the dark-green waters." 



613 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Still moaned the humid lips, between their kisses, 
" We have no love. Oh, love us, we who love thee ! " 
And came in answer, thus, the words of Hylas : 
" My love is mortal. For the Argive maidens 
I keep the kisses which your lips would ravish. 
Unlock your cold white arms — take from my shoul- 
der 
The tangled swell of your bewildering tresses. 
Let me return : the wind comes down from Ida, 
And soon the galley, stirring from her slumber, 
Will fret to ride where Pelion's twilight shadow 
Palls o'er the towers of Jason's sea-girt city. 
I am not yours — I cannot braid the lilies 
In your wet hair nor on your argent bosoms 
Close my drowsed eyes to hear your rippling voices. 
Hateful to me your sweet, cold, crystal being, — 
Your world of watery quiet. Help, Apollo ! 
For I am thine : thy fire, thy beam, thy music. 
Dance in my heart and flood my sense with rapture ; 
The joy, the warmth and passion now awaken, 
Promised by thee, but erewhile calmly sleeping. 
Oh, leave me, naiads ! loose your chill embraces. 
Or I shall die, for mortal maidens pining." 
But still with unrelenting arms they bound him, 
And still, accordant, flowed their watery voices : 
" We have thee now — we hold thy beauty pris- 
oned ; 
Oh, come with us beneath the emerald waters ! 
We have no love ; we love thee, rosy Hylas. 
Oh, love us, who shall never more release thee — 
Love us, whose milky arms will be thy cradle 
Far down on the untroubled sands of ocean. 
Where now we bear thee, clasped in our embraces." 
And slowly, slowly sank the amorous naiads. 
The boy's blue eyes, upturned, looked through the 

water, 
Pleading for help ; but heaven's immortal archer 
Was swathed in cloud. The ripples hid his fore- 
head ; 
And last, the thick, bright curls a moment floated. 
So warm and silky that the stream upbore them, 
Closing reluctant, as he sank for ever. 

The sunset died behind the crags of Imbros. 
Argo was tugging at her chain ; for freshly 
Blew the swift breeze, and leaped the restless billows. 
The voice of Jason roused the dozing sailors. 
And up the mast was heaved the snowy canvas. 
But mighty Heracles, the Jove-begotten, 



Unmindful stood, beside the cool Scamander, 
Leaning upon his club. A purple chlamys 
Tossed o'er an iirn was all that lay before him : 
And when he called expectant, " Hylas ! Hylas ! " 
The empty echoes made him answer, " Hylas ! " 

Bayard Taylor. 



Ill)cectts. 

God sends his teachers unto every age. 

To every clime, and every race of men, 

With revelations fitted to their growth 

And shape of mind, nor gives the realm of truth 

Into the selfish rule of one sole race. 

Therefore each form of worship that hath swayed 

The life of man, and given it to grasp 

The master-key of knowledge, reverence. 

Enfolds some germs of goodness and of right ; 

Else never had the eager soul, which loathes 

The slothful down of pampered ignorance, 

Found in it even a moment's fitful rest. 

There is an instinct in the human heart 
Which makes that all the fables it hath coined. 
To justify the reign of its belief 
And strengthen it by beauty's right divine. 
Veil in their inner cells a mystic gift. 
Which, like the hazel-twig, in faithful hands, 
Points surely to the hidden springs of truth. 
For, as in nature naught is made in vain. 
But all things have within their hull of use 
A wisdom and a meaning, which may speak 
Of spiritual secrets to the ear 
Of spirit ; so, in whatsoe'er the heart 
Hath fashioned for a solace to itself, 
To make its inspirations suit its creed, 
And from the niggard hands of falsehood wring 
Its needful food of truth, there ever is 
A sympathy with nature, which reveals, 
Not less than her own works, pure gleams of light 
And earnest parables of inward lore. 
Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece, 
As full of freedom, youth, and beauty still 
As the immortal freshness of that grace 
Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze. 

A youth named Rhoecus, wandering in the wood. 
Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall ; 



ii 



RHCECUS. 



613 



And, feeling pity of so fair a tree, 

He propped its gray trunk with admiring care, 

And with a thoughtless footstep loitered on. 

But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind 

That murmured "Rhcecus!" — 'Twas as if the 

leaves, 
Stirred by a passing breath, had murmured it ; 
And, whUe he paused bewildered, yet again 
It murmured " Rhcecus ! " softer than a breeze. 
He started and beheld with dizzy eyes 
What seemed the substance of a happy dream 
Stand there before him, spreading a warm glow 
Within the green glooms of the shadowy oak. 
It seemed a woman's shape, yet all too fair 
To be a woman, and with eyes too meek 
For any that were wont to mate with gods. 
All naked like a goddess stood she there, 
And like a goddess all too beautiful 
To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame. 
" Rhcecus, I am the dryad of this tree — " 
Thus she began, dropping her low-toned words. 
Serene, and full, and clear, as drops of dew — 
" And with it I am doomed to live and die ; 
The rain and sunshine are my caterers. 
Nor have I other bliss than simple life ; 
Now ask me what thou wilt, that I can give, 
And with a thankful heart it shall be thine." 

Then Rhcecus, with a flutter at the heart. 
Yet, by the prompting of such beauty, bold, 
Answered : " What is there that can satisfy 
The endless craving of the soul but love ? 
Give me thy love, or but the hope of that 
Which must be evermore my spirit's goal." 
After a little pause she said again. 
But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone, 
" I give it, Rhoecus, though a perilous gift ; 
An hour before the sunset meet me here." 
And straightway there was nothing he could see 
But the green glooms beneath the shadowy oak ; 
And not a sound came to his straining ears 
But the low trickling rustle of the leaves. 
And, far away upon an emerald slope. 
The falter of an idle shepherd's pipe. 

Now, in those days of simpleness and faith. 
Men did not think that happy things were dreams 
Because they overstepped the narrow bourne 
Of likelihood, but reverently deemed 



Nothing too wondrous or too beautiful 

To be the guerdon of a daring heart. 

So Rhcecus made no doubt that he was blest ; 

And all along unto the city's gate 

Earth seemed to spring beneath him as he walked ; 

The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its wont. 

And he could scarce believe he had not wings — 

Such sunshine seemed to glitter through his veins 

Instead of blood, so light he felt and strange. 

Young Rhcecus had a faithful heart enough, 
But one that in the present dwelt too much. 
And, taking with blithe welcome whatsoe'er 
Chance gave of joy, was wholly bound in that. 
Like the contented peasant of a vale. 
Deemed it the world, and never looked beyond. 
So, haply meeting in the afternoon 
Some comrades who were playing at the dice. 
He joined them and forgot all else beside. 

The dice was rattling at the merriest, 
And Rhoecus, who had met but sorry luck. 
Just laughed in triumph at a happy throw. 
When through the room there hummed a yellow bee 
That buzzed about his ear with down-dropped legs. 
As if to light. And Rhcecus laughed and said. 
Feeling how red and flushed he was with loss, 
" By Venus ! does he take me for a rose ? " 
And brushed him off with rough, impatient hand. 
But still the bee came back, and thrice again 
Rhoecus did beat him off with growing wrath. 
Then through the window flew the wounded bee ; 
And Rhoecus, tracking him with angry eyes. 
Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly 
Against the red disc of the setting sun, — 
And instantly the blood sank from his heart. 
As if its very walls had caved away. 
Without a word he turned, and rushing forth. 
Ran madly through the city and the gate. 
And o'er the plain, which now the wood's long 

shade. 
By the low sun thrown forward broad and dim. 
Darkened well-nigh unto the city's wall. 

Quite spent and out of breath, he reached the 
tree ; 
And, listening fearfully, he heard once more 
The low voice murmur " Rhoecus ! " close at hand ; 
Whereat he looked around him, but could see 



614 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Nought but the deepening glooms beneath the oak. 
Then sighed the voice : " Rhoecus ! nevermore 
Shalt thou behold me, or by day or night — 
Me, who would fain have blest thee with a love 
More ripe and bounteous than ever yet 
Pilled up with nectar any mortal heart ; 
But thou didst scorn my humble messenger, 
And sent'st him back to me with bruised wings. 
We spirits only show to gentle eyes — 
We ever ask an undivided love ; 
And he who scorns the least of nature's works 
Is thenceforth exiled and shut out from all. 
Farewell ! for thou canst never see me more." 

Then Rhcecus beat his breast, and groaned aloud, 

And cried, " Be pitiful ! forgive me yet 

This once, and I shall never need it more ! " 

" Alas ! " the voice returned, " 'tis thou art blind. 

Not I unmerciful ; I can forgive. 

But have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes ; 

Only the soul hath power o'er itself." 

With that again there murmured " Nevermore !" 

And Rhcecus after heard no other sound. 

Except the rattling of the oak's crisp leaves, 

Like the long surf upon a distant shore. 

Raking the sea-worn pebbles up and down. 

The night had gathered round him ; o'er the plain 

The city sparkled with its thousand lights. 

And sounds of revel fell upon his ear 

Harshly and like a curse ; above, the sky. 

With all its bright sublimity of stars. 

Deepened, and on his forehead smote the breeze ; 

Beauty was all around him, and delight ; 

But from that eve he was alone on earth. 

James Russell Lowell. 



ISubla Hf)an. 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 

A stately pleasure-dome decree. 
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran. 
Through caverns measureless to man, 
Down to a sunless sea. 
So twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled round ; 
And there were gardens, bright with sinuous rills. 
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ; 



And here were forests ancient as the hills. 
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But oh ! that deep romantic chasm, which slanted 

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover ! 
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted 
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 

By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! 
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seeth- 
ing, 
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
A mighty fountain momently was forced. 
Amid whose swift, half-intermitted burst 
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail ; 
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
It flung up momently the sacred river. 

Five miles, meandering with a mazy motion 
Through wood and dale, the sacred river ran — 
Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean ; 
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
Ancestral voices prophesying war. 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 

Floated midway on the waves. 
Where was heard the mingled measure 

From the fountain and the caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device — 
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! 
A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once I saw ; 
It was an Abyssinian maid. 
And on her dulcimer she played, 

Singing of Mount Abora. 
Could I revive within me 

Her symphony and song, 
To such a deep delight 'twould win me 

That, with music loud and long, 
I would build that dome in air — 

That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! 
And all wlio heard should see them there, 
And all should cry. Beware ! beware 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! 

Weave a circle round him thrice. 
And close your eyes with holy dread. 
For he on honey-dew hath fed. 

And drunk the milk of Paradise. 

Samuel Taylor Colekidgb. 



i 



RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



615 



V^ivxt of tl)e Ancient illarincr. 



PART I. 

An ancient It is an ancient mariner, 
meeteth And he stoppeth one of three : 
Jantlbldden " ^^ thy long gray beard and glittering 
to a wed- eye, 

dino* - feast 

ancf detain- Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? 
eth one. 

The bridegroom's doors are opened 

wide, 
And I am next of kin ; 
The guests are met, the feast is set — 
May'st hear the merry din." 



He holds him with his skinny hand : 

" There was a ship," quoth he. 

" Hold off ! unhand me, gray-beard 

loon ! " 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 



The wed- 
ding-guest 
is spell- 
bound by 
the eye of 
the old sea- 
faring man, 
and con- 
strained to 
hear his 
tale. 



The mariner 
tells how 
the ship 
sailedsouth- 
ward, with a 
good wind 
and fair 
weather, till 
it reached 
the line. 



He holds him with his glittering eye — 
The wedding-guest stood still ; 
He listens like a three-years' child : 
The mariner hath his will. 

The wedding-guest sat on a stone — 
He cannot choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed mariner : 

"The ship was cheered, the harbor 

cleared ; 
Merrily did we drop 
Below the kirk, below the hiU, 
Below the light-house top. 

The sun came up upon the left. 
Out of the sea came he ; 
And he shone bright, and on the right 
Went down into the sea ; 

Higher and higher every day, 

Till over the mast at noon — " 

The wedding-guest here beat his breast. 

For he heard the loud bassoon. 



The wed- 
ding-guest 
heareth the 
bridal-mu- 
sic, but the 
mariner 
continueth 
his tale. 



The bride hath paced into the hall — 
Red as a rose is she ! 
Nodding their heads before her goes 
The merry minstrelsy. 

The wedding-guest he beat his breast, 
Yet he cannot choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man. 
The bright-eyed mariner : 



" And. now the storm-blast came, and The ship 
, drawn b; 



Was tyrannous and strong ; 

He struck with his o'ertaking wings, 

And chased us south along. 



y a 

storm 
toward the 
South Pole. 



With sloping masts and dipping 

prow — 
As who pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the shadow of his foe, 
And forward bends his head — 
The ship drove fast; loud roared the 

blast. 
And southward aye we fled. 

And now there came both mist and 

snow. 
And it grew wondrous cold ; 
And ice, mast-high, came floating by. 
As green as emerald. 

And through the drifts the snowy cliffs The land of 
TN ■ 1 J J ■ 1 i_ ice and of 

Did send a dismal sheen ; fearful 

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — sounds, 

^ where no 

The ice was aU between. living thing 

was to be 
. J, . seen. 

The ice was here, the ice was there. 

The ice was all around ; 

It cracked and growled, and roared and 

howled. 

Like noises in a swound ! 



At length did cross an albatross — 
Thorough the fog it came ; 
As if it had been a Christian soul. 
We hailed it in God's name. 

It ate the food it ne'er had eat. 
And round and round it flew. 
The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
The helmsman steered us through ! 



Till a great 
sea-bird, 
called the 
albatross, 
came 

through the 
snow-fog, 
and was re- 
ceived with 
great ,ioy 
and hospi- 
tality. 



616 



POEMS OF THE UIAGINATION. 



And lo ! the 
albatross 
proveth a 
bird of good 
omen, and 
foUoweth 
the ship as 
it returned 
northward 
through fog 
and floating 



And a good south wind sprang up behind ; 
The albatross did follow, 
And every day, for food or play, 
Came to the mariners' hollo ! 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud. 

It perched for vespers nine ; 

"Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke 

white. 
Glimmered the white moon-shine." 



The ancient " God save thee, ancient mariner ! 
SfspUabl™' From the fiends that plague thee thus ! — 
kiileth the Why look'st thou so ?" — " With my 
cross-bow 



pious bird of 
good omen. 



I shot the albatross." 



PART II. 

" The sun now rose upon the right — 
Out of the sea came he. 
Still hid in mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. 

And the good south wind still blew be- 
hind ; 
But no sweet bird did follow, 
Nor any day for food or play 
Came to the mariners' hollo. 

His ship- And I had done a hellish thing, 
oift ^against And it would work 'em woe ; 

the aScient po^ all averred I had killed the bird 

manner, for 

killing the That made the breeze to blow : 

hlck.°* ^°°^ Ah. wretch ! said they, the bird to slay, 
That made the breeze to blow ! 



But when Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, 
ciearef off The glorious sun uprist ; 
they justify Then all averred I had killed the bird 
and thus' That brought the fog and mist : 
^WeVa'i-™" "^^^^ right, said they, such birds to 
complices in slay. 

That bring the fog and mist. 

The fair The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 
tinues ; the The furrow followed free ; 

ship enters ^g ^ore, the first that ever burst 
the Pacific 

Ocean, and Into that silent sea. 
sails north- 
ward, even till it reached the line. 



Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt The ship 
A „„„ hath been 

aown — suddenly 

'Twas sad as sad could be ; becalmed. 

And we did speak only to break 

The silence of the sea. 

All in a hot and copper sky 
The bloody sun, at noon. 
Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the moon. 

Day after day, day after day. 
We stuck — nor breath nor motion ; 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 



Water, water everywhere. 
And all the boards did shrink ; 
Water, water everywhere. 
Nor any drop to drink. 

The very deep did rot ; Christ ! 
That ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea ! 

About, about, in reel and rout. 
The death-fires danced at night ; 
The water, like a witch's oils, 
Burnt green, and blue, and white. 



And the al- 
batross be- 
gins to be 
avenged. 



And some in dreams assured were 
Of the spirit that plagued us so ; 
Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
From the land of mist and snow. 



A spirit had 
followed 
them — one 
of the invis- 
ible inhabit- 
ants of this 
planet, nei- 
ther departed souls nor angels ; concerning whom the learned 
Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael 
Pselhis, may be consulted. They are very numerous, and 
there is no climate or element without one or more. 

And every tongue, through utter 

drought. 
Was withered at the root ; 
We could not speak, no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 



The ship- 
mates, in 
their sore 
distress, 
would fain 
throw the 
whole guilt 

on the ancient mariner ; in sign whereof they hang the dead 

sea-bird round his neck. 



Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks 
Had I from old and young ! 
Instead of the cross the albatross 
About my neck was hung. 



RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



617 



PART UI. 

There passed a weary time. Each 
throat 

"Was parched, and glazed each eye — 

A weary time ! a weary time ! 

How glazed each weary eye ! — 
The ancient When, looking westward, I beheld 
manner be- ■ ^.i, i 

holdeth a A something m the sky. 
sign in the 
element 
afar off. ^^ ^^^ ^^ seemed a little speck, 

And then it seemed a mist ; 

It moved and moved, and took at 

last. 
A certain shape, I wist — 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 
And stiU it neared and neared ; 
As if it dodged a water-sprite. 
It plunged and tacked and veered. 



At its near- With throats unslaked, with black lips 

er approach 

it seemeth baked, 

Bh^ ; and at ^^ could nor laugh nor wail ; 

a dear ran- Through utter drought aU dumb we 
eom he ^ ° 

freeth his stood ! 

thewTS I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 

thirst. And cried, A sail ! a sail ! 



With throats unslaked, with black lips 

baked. 
Agape they heard me call ; 
Gramerey ! they for joy did grin. 
And all at once their breath drew in. 
As they were drinking all. 



A flash of 
joy. 



And horror See ! see ! I cried, she tacks no more ! 
follows. For tj.,, , , , 

can it be a Hither to work us weal, 

ship that Without a breeze, without a tide, 
comes on- ' ' 

ward with- She Steadies with upright keel ! 
out wind or 
tide? 

The western wave was all a-flame ; 
The day was well-nigh done ; 
Almost upon the western wave 
Rested the broad bright sun. 
When that strange shape drove sud- 
denly 
Betwixt us and the sun. 



And straight the sun was flecked with It seemeth 
, him but the 

bars, skeleton of 

(Heaven's mother send us grace ! ) ^ ship. 

As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 

With broad and burning face. 

Alas! thought I — and my heart beat 

loud — 
How fast she nears and nears ! 
Are those her sails that glance in the 

sun. 
Like restless gossameres ? 



Are those her ribs through which the 

sun 
Did peer, as through a grate ? 
And is that woman all her crew? 
Is that a death ? and are there two ? 
Is death that woman's mate ? 

Her lips were red, her looks were 

free. 
Her locks were yellow as gold ; 
Her skin was as white as leprosy : 
The nightmare, Lif e - in - Death, was 

she. 
Who thicks man's blood with cold. 

The naked hulk alongside came. 
And the twain were casting dice : 
'The game is done — I've won! I've 

won ! ' 
Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

The sun's rim dips, the stars rush out. 
At one stride comes the dark ; 
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea. 
Off shot the spectre bark. 

We listened, and looked sideways up ; 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup. 

My life-blood seemed to sip ; 

The stars were dim, and thick the night ; 

The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed 

white ; 
Prom the sails the dew did drip — 
Till clomb above the eastern bar 
The horned moon, with one bright star 
Within the nether tip. 



And its ribs 
are seen as 
bars on the 
face of the 
setting sun. 
The spectre- 
woman and 
her death- 
mate, and 
no other on 
board the 
skeleton 
ship. 

Like vessel, 
like crew I 



Death and 
Life-in- 
Death have 
diced for 
the ship's 
crew, and 
she (the lat- 
ter) winneth 
the ancient 
mariner. 

No twilight 
within the 
courts of 
the sun. 



At the ris- 
ing of the 
moon, 



618 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



One after One after one, by the star -dogged 
another. ' •' "" 

moon, 

Too quick for groan or sigh, 

Each turned his face with a ghastly 

pang, 

And cursed me with his eye. 

His ship- Four times fifty living men, 
mates drop , . j t i. j ■ i, i \ 

down dead. (And I heard nor sigh nor groan ! ) 

With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 

, They dropped down one by one. 



But Life-in- The souls did from their bodies fly,- 
gins her They fled to bliss or woe ! 
ancientmar^ ^'^'^ every soul it passed me by, 
iner. Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! " 



The wed- " I fear thee, ancient mariner I 
fearefhUiat I fear thy skinny hand ! 

And thou art long, and lank, and brown, 



a spirit is 
talking to 
him. 



But the an- 
cient mari- 
ner assureth 
him of his 
bodily life, 
and pro- 
ceedeth to 
relate his 
liorrible 
penance. 



As is the ribbed sea-sand. 

1 fear thee, and thy glittering eye. 
And thy skinny hand so brown." — 
" Fear not, fear not, thou wedding- 
guest ! 
This body dropt not down. 

Alone, alone, all, all alone. 
Alone on a wide, wide sea ! 
And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 



He despis- The many men, so beautiful ! 
tures of the And they all dead did lie ; 
calm. ^^^ ^ thousand thousand slimy things 

Lived on — and so did L 



And envied I looked upon the rottmg sea, 

that they » i n 

should live, And drew my eyes away; 

lie dead ''"^ I looked upon the rotting deck. 
And there the dead men ^ay. 

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray ; 
But or ever a prayer had gusht 
A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 



I closed my lids, and kept them 

close. 
And the balls like pulses beat ; 
For the sky and the sea and the sea and 

the sky 
Lay like a load on my weary eye. 
And the dead were at my feet. 

The cold sweat melted from their But the 

T , curse liveth 

limbs — for him in 

Nor rot nor reek did they ; t^| ^gl°^ 

The look with which they looked on men. 

me 

Had never passed away. 

An orphan's curse would drag to hell 

A spirit from on high ; 

But oh ! more horrible than that 

Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! 

Seven days, seven nights, 1 saw that 

curse — 
And yet I could not die. 



The moving moon went up the sky, 
And nowhere did abide ; 
Softly she was going up. 
And a star or two beside — 



In his lone- 
liness and 
fixedness he 
yearneth 
towards the 
journeying 
moon, and 

the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward ; and 
everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their ap- 
pointed rest, and their native country, and their own natural 
homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are cer- 
tainly expected : and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival. 

Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 
Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
But where the ship's huge shadow lay 
The charmed water burnt alway, 
A still and awful red. 

Beyond the shadow of the ship By the light 

T , , , , , J 1 of the moon 

I watched the water-snakes ; he behold- 

They moved in tracks of shining white; pfej,^„° es^ ^j 

And when they reared, the elfish the great 

light 

Fell off in hoary flakes. 



calm. 



Within the shadow of the ship 

I watched their rich attire — 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black. 

They coiled and swam ; and every track 

Was a flash of golden fire. 



RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



619 



Their beau- Oh happy living things ! no tongue 
ty and their mi ■ i i ■ i j. t i 
happiness. Their beauty might declare ; 

A spring of love gushed from my 
heart, 
He blesseth And I blessed them unaware — 
heart. Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 

And I blessed them unavs^are. 



The spell The selfsame moment I could pray ; 
begins to , , . . j. 

break. And from my neck so tree 

The albatross feU off, and sank 

Like lead into the sea. 



Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing. 
Beloved from pole to pole ! 
To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven 
That slid into my soul. 



By grace of The Silly buckets on the deck, 
thelioly ^, , , , . -, 

Mother, the That had SO long remained, 

fnerls r?-'"'" ^ dreamt that they were filled with 

freshed deW ; 

And when I awoke, it rained. 



My lips were wet, my throat was 

cold, 
My garments all were dank ; 
Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
And stUl my body drank. 

1 moved, and could not feel my 

limbs ; 
I was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep. 
And was a blessed ghost. 



He heareth And soon I heard a roaring wind — 

sounds and t , ,. , , 

seeth It did not come anear; 

sfehtfand ^^^ vfit\i its sound it shook the sails, 
commotions That Were so thin and sere, 
in the sky 
and the ele- 
ment, rpjjg yppgj. j^j^. ,3^j^g^ jjj^Q Ijfg . 

And a hundred fire-flags sheen. 
To and fro they were hurried about ; 
And to and fro, and in and out. 
The wan stars danced between. 



And the coming wind did roar more 

loud, 
And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 
And the rain poured down from one 

black cloud — 
The moon was at its edge. 

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
The moon was at its side ; 
Like waters shot from some high crag, 
The lightning fell with never a jag — 
A river steep and wide. 



The loud wind never reached the ship, The bodies 

-17- 4- J.T- 1-- -II of the ship's 

Yet now the ship moved on ! crew are m- 

Beneath the lightning and the moon !P"^?'. ^^"^ 

'^ ° the ship ■ 

The dead men gave a groan. moves on. 



They groaned, they stirred, they all 

uprose — 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 
It had been strange, even in a dream, 
To have seen those dead men rise. 

The helmsman steered, the ship moved 

on; 
Yet never a breeze up blew ; 
The mariners all 'gan work the ropes. 
Where they were wont to do ; 
They raised their limbs like lifeless 

tools — 
We were a ghastly crew. 

The body of my brother's son 
Stood by me, knee to knee ; 
The body and I pulled at one rope, 
But he said naught to me." 



" I fear thee, ancient mariner ! " 

" Be calm, thou wedding-guest ! 

'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, 

Which to their corses came again. 

But a troop of spirits blest ; 

For when it dawned they dropped their 

arms, 
And clustered round the mast ; 
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their 

mouths. 
And from their bodies passed. 



But not by 
the souls of 
the men, nor 
by demons 
of earth or 
middle air, 
but by a 
blessed 
troop of an- 
gelic spirits, 
sent dowTi 
by the invo- 
cation of the 
guardian 
saint. 



620 



POEMS OF THE IIIAGINATION. 



The lone- 
some spirit 
from the 
South Pole 
carries on 
the ship as 
far as the 
line in obe- 
dience to the 
angelic 
troop ; but 
still requir- 
eth ven- 
geance. 



Around, around flew each sweet sound, 
Then darted to the sun ; 
Slowly the sounds came back again — 
Now mixed, now one by one. 

Sometimes, a-dropping from the sky, 
I heard the skylark sing ; 
Sometimes all little birds that are — 
How they seemed to fill the sea and 

air 
With their sweet jargoning ! 

And now 'twas like all instruments, 
Now like a lonely flute ; 
And now it is an angel's song, 
That makes the heavens be mute. 

It ceased; yet still the sails made 

on 
A pleasant noise till noon — 
A noise like of a hidden brook 
In the leafy month of June, 
That to the sleeping woods all night 
Singeth a quiet tune. 

Till noon we quietly sailed on. 
Yet never a breeze did breathe ; 
Slowly and smoothly went the ship. 
Moved onward from beneath. 

Under the keel, nine fathom deep. 
From the land of mist and snow 
The spirit slid ; and it was he 
That made the ship to go. 
The sails at noon left ofE their tune. 
And the ship stood still also. 

The sun, right up above the mast, 
Had fixed her to the ocean ; 
But in a minute she 'gan stir. 
With a short, uneasy motion — 
Backwards and forwards half her length. 
With a short, uneasy motio/i. 

Then like a pawing horse let go, 
She made a sudden bound — 
It flung the blood into my head. 
And I fell down in a swound. 



How long in that same fit I lay 
I have not to declare ; 
But ere my living life returned 
I heard, and in my soul discerned, 
Two voices in the air : 

' Is it he ? ' quoth one, ' is this the man 
By him who died on cross. 
With his cruel bow he laid full low 
The harmless albatross ! 

The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the land of mist and snow. 
He loved the bird that loved the man 
Who shot him with his bow.' 

The other was a softer voice. 

As soft as honey-dew : 

Quoth he, ' The man hath penance done. 

And penance more will do.' 

PART VI. 
FIRST VOICE. 

' But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 
Thy soft response renewing — 
What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
What is the ocean doing f ' 

SECOND VOICE. 

' Still as a slave before his lord. 
The ocean hath no blast : 
His great bright ej'e most silently 
Up to the moon is cast — 

If he may know which way to go ; 
For she guides him smooth or grim. 
See, brother, see ! how graciously 
She looketh down on him.' 



The polar 
spirit's fel- 
low demons, 
the invisible 
inhabitants 
of the ele- 
ment, take 
part in his 
wrong; and 
two of them 
I relate, one 
to the other, 
that pen- 
ance, long 
and heavy 
for the an- 
cient mari- 
ner, hath 
been ac- 
corded to 
the polar 
spirit, who 
returneth 
southward. 



FIRST VOICE. 

' But why drives on that ship 

fast, 
Without or wave or wind f ' 

SECOND VOICE. 

' The air is cut away before. 
And closes from behind. 



The mariner 
SQ hath been 
cast into a 
trance ; for 
the angelic 
power caus- 
eth the ves- 
sel to drive 
northward 
faster than 
human life 
could en- 
dure. 



RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



621 



Ply, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 
Or we shall be belated ; 
For slow and slow that ship will go, 
When the mariner's trance is abated.' 

The super- I woke, and we were sailing on 
natural mo- , . , , , , 

tion is re- As m a gentle weather ; 

tarded; the 'rp^^g night, calm night — the moon 
manner ° ' ° 

awakes, and was high ; 

bl^inf ^°''*' The dead men stood together. 

anew. 

All stood together on the deck, 
For a charnel-dungeon fitter ; 
All fixed on me their stony eyes, 
That in the moon did glitter. 

The pang, the curse, with which they 

died, 
Had never passed away ; 
I could not draw my eyes from theirs. 
Nor turn them up to pray. 

The cnrse is And now this spell was snapt ; once 
finally expi- 
ated, more 

I viewed the ocean green. 

And looked far forth, yet little saw 

Of what had else been seen — 

Like one that on a lonesome road 

Doth walk in fear and dread, 

And, having once turned round, walks 

on, 
And turns no more his head ; 
Because he knows a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread. 

But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
Nor sound nor motion made ; 
Its path was not upon the sea. 
In ripple or in shade. 

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek. 
Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
It mingled strangely with my fears, 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship. 
Yet she sailed softly too ; 
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
On me alone it blew. 



And the an- 
cient mari- 
ner behold- 
eth his na- 
tive coun- 
try. 



Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed 
The light-house top I see ? 
Is this the hill ? is this the kirk 1 
Is this mine own countree ? 

We drifted o'er the harbor-bar, 
And I with sobs did pray — 
Oh let me be awake, my God ! 
Or let me sleep alway. 

The harbor-bay was clear as glass, 
So smoothly it was strewn ! 
And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
And the shadow of the moon. 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less 
That stands above the rock ; 
The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 



And the bay was white with silent light 

Till, rising from the same, 

Full many shapes, that shadows were. The angelic 
_ . , spirits leave 

In crunson colors came. ihe dead 

bodies, 

A little distance from the prow And appear 

„, - 1 I in their own 

Those crimson shadows were ; forms of 

I turned my eyes upon the deck — ^'^'^*- 

Christ ! what saw I there ! 

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat ; 
And, by the holy rood ! 
A man all light, a seraph-man. 
On every corse there stood. 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand — 
It was a heavenly sight ! 
They stood as signals to the land, 
Bach one a lovely light ; 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand ; 
No voice did they impart — 
No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 

But soon I heard the dash of oars, 

1 heard the pilot's cheer ; 

My head was turned perforce away, 
And I saw a boat appear. 



623 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



The pilot and the pilot's boy, 
I heard them coming fast ; 
Dear Lord in heaven ! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third — I heard his voice ; 

It is the hermit good ! 

He singeth loud his godly hymns 

That he makes in the wood ; 

He'll shrieve my soul — he'll wash away 

The albatross's blood. 

PART VII. 

The hermit This hermit good lives in that wood 
of the wood yj^Yiich. slopes down to the sea. 

How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
He loves to talk with marineres 
That come from a far countree. 

He kneels at morn, and noon, and 

eve — 
He hath a cushion plump ; 
It is the moss that wholly hides 
The rotted old oak-stump. 

The skiff-boat neared — I heard them 

talk ; 
' Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
Where are those lights, so many and 

fair, 
That signal made but now ? ' 



Approach- ' Strange, by my faith ! ' the hermit 
eth the ship 



with won- 
der. 



said — 

' And they answered not our cheer ! 
The planks looked warped ! and see 

those sails. 
How thin they are and sere ! 
I never saw aught like to them, 
Unless perchance it were 

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 

My forest-brook along, ' 

When the ivj'-tod is heavy with 
snow, 

And the owlet whoops to the wolf be- 
low, 

That eats the she-wolf's young.' 



' Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look,' 
The pilot made reply — 
' I am a-feared ' — ' Push on, push on ! ' 
Said the hermit cheerily. 

The boat came closer to the ship, 
But I nor spake nor stirred ; 
The boat came close beneath the ship, 
And straight a sound was heard : 

Under the water it rumbled on. 
Still louder and more dread ; 
It reached the ship — it split the bay — 
The ship went down like lead. 



The ship 
suddenly 
sinketh. 



Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, The ancient 

manner IS 
Which sky and ocean smote, saved in the 

Like one that hath been seven days P^'"'^'^ ^°'^'- 

drowned 

My body lay afloat ; 

But, swift as dreams, myself I found 

Within the pilot's boat. 

Upon the whirl where sank the ship 
The boat span round and round ; 
And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

I moved my lips — the pilot shrieked 
And fell down in a fit ; 
The holy hermit raised his eyes, 
And prayed where he did sit. 

I took the oars ; the pilot's boy, 

Who now doth crazy go, 

Laughed loud and long; andallthewhUe 

His eyes went to and fro : 

' Ha ! ha ! ' quoth he, ' full plain I see, 

The devil knows how to row.' 

And now, all in my own countree, 
I stood on the firm land ! 
The hermit stepped forth from the boat, 
And scarcely he could stand. 



' Oh shrieve me, shrieve me, holy 

man ! ' — 
The hermit crossed his brow : 
' Say quick,' quoth he, ' I bid thee say — 
What manner of man art thou ? ' 



The ancient 
mariner ear- 
nestly en- 
treateth the 
hermit to 
shrieve him; 
and the pen- 
ance of life 
falls on him. 



THE RAVEN. 



623 



Forthwith this frame of mine was 

wrenched 
With a woful agony, 
Which forced me to begin my tale — 
And then it left me free. 



And ever Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
and anon ,_, , , 

throughout That agony returns ; 

his future ^nd till my ghastly tale is told 
hfe an ago- •' " •' 

ny con- This heart within me burns, 
straineth 
him to trav- 
el from land I pass, like night, from land to land ; 
to land. T t 4. £ 1, 

I have strange power ot speech ; 

That moment that his face I see 

I know the man that must hear me — 

To him my tale I teach. 

What loud uproar bursts from that 

door! 
The wedding-guests are there ; 
But in the garden-bower the bride 
And bride-maids singing are ; 
And hark the little vesper bell, 
Which biddeth me to prayer ! 

wedding-guest ! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide, wide sea — • 
So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 

Oh sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
'Tis sweeter far to me. 
To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company ! — 

To walk together to the kirk. 

And aU together pray. 

While each to his great Father bends — 

Old men, and babes, and loving friends. 

And youths and maidens gay ! 

And to Farewell ! farewell ! but this I tell 
hls'^own ex- To thee, thou wedding-guest ! 

ample, love jjg prayeth well who loveth well 

and rever- '• •' 

ence to all Both man and bird and beast. 

things that 

God made 

and loveth. He prayeth best who loveth best 

All things both great and small ; 

For the dear God who loveth us, 

He made and loveth all." 



The mariner, whose eye is bright, 
Whose beard with age is hoar, 
Is gone. And now the wedding-guest 
Turned from the bridegroom's door. 

He went like one that hath been stunned, 
And is of sense forlorn ; 
A sadder and a wiser man 
He rose the morrow morn. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, 

weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of foi'got- 

ten lore — 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there 

came a tapping. 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my 

chamber door : 
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my 

chamber door — 

Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember ! it was in the bleak 

December, 
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost 

upon the floor. 
Eagerly 1 wished the morrow ; vainly I had tried 

to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for 

the lost Lenore — 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 

name Lenore — 

Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each 
purple curtain 

Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never 
felt before ; 

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I 
stood repeating, 

" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my cham- 
ber door — 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my cham- 
ber door ; — 

This it is, and nothing more." 



634 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then 

no longer, 
" Sir," said I, " or madam, truly your forgiveness I 

implore ; 
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you 

came rapping, 
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my 

chamber door, 
That I scarce was sure I heard you," — here I 

opened wide the door : 

Darkness there, and nothing more ! 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there 

wondering, fearing. 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared 

to dream before ; 
But the sUence was unbroken, and the darkness 

gave no token, 
And the only word there spoken was the whispered 

word, " Lenore ! " 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the 

word " Lenore ! " 

Merely this, and nothing more. 

Then into the chamber turning, all my soul within 

me burning. 
Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than 

before : 
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my 

window lattice ; 
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery 

explore — 
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery 

explore ; — 

'Tis the wind, and nothing more ! " 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a 

flirt and flutter. 
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days 

of yore ; 
Not the least obeisance made he ; not an instant 

stopped or stayed he ; , 

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my 

chamber door — 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just ■ above my 

chamber door — 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 



Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into 

smUing, 
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance 

it wore ; 
" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I 

said, " art sure no craven — 
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from 

the nightly shore — 
TeU me what thy lordly name is on the night's 

Plutonian shore ! " 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." 



Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear dis- 
course so plainly — 

Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy 
bore; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human 
being 

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird fibove his 
chamber door — 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his 
chamber door. 

With such name as " Nevermore." 



But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, 

spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he 

did outpour. 
Nothing farther then he uttered — not a feather 

then he fluttered — 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends 

have flown before — 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have 

flown before." 

Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly 
spoken, 

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only 
stock and store — 

Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmer- 
ciful disaster 

Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs 
one burden bore — 

Till the dirges of his hope the melancholy burden 
bore 

Of ' Never — Nevermore.' " 



THE RAVEN. 



625 



But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into 
smUing, 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of 
bird, and bust, and door ; 

Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to 
linking 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird 
of yore — 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and omi- 
nous bird of yore 

Meant in croaking, " Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable ex- 
pressing 

To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my 
bosom's core ; 

This, and more, I sat divining, with my head at 
ease reclining 

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight 
gloated o'er ; 

But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamplight 
gloating o'er, 

She shall press — ah, never more ! 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed 

from an unseen censer 
Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on 

the tufted floor. 
" Wretch ! " I cried, " thy God hath lent thee, by 

these angels he hath sent thee, 
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories 

of Lenore ! 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this 

lost Lenore ! " 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, 
if bird or devil ! 

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed 
thee here ashore — 

Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land en- 
chanted, 



On this home by horror haunted — tell me truly, I 

implore — 
Is there — is there balm in Gilead 1 tell me ^ tell 

me, I implore ! " 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." 

" Prophet ! " said I, "thing of evil ! — prophet still, 
if bird or devil ! 

By that heaven that bends above us — by that God 
we both adore — 

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the dis- 
tant Aidenn, 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels 
name Lenore — 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 
name Lenore." 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." 

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " 

I shrieked, upstarting — 
" Get thee back into the tempest and the night's 

Plutonian shore ! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy 

soul hath spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust 

above my door ! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy 

form from off my door ! " 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." 

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is 
sitting 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my cham- 
ber door ; 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's 
that is dreaming. 

And the lamplight, o'er him streaming, throws his 
shadow on the floor ; 

And my soul from out that shadow that lies float- 
ing on the floor 

ShaU be lifted — nevermore ! 

Edgab Allan Poe. 



42 



PAET IX. 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Thb fate of the man-child ; 

The meaning of man ; 
Known fruit of the unlsnown ; 

Dsedalian plan ; 
Out of sleeping a waking, 

Out of waking a sleep : 
Life death overtaking, 

Deep underneath deep. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



Behold a woman ! 

She looks out from her Quaker cap ; her face is clearer and more beautiful 
than the sky. 

She sits in an arm-chair under the shaded porch of the farm-houee ; 
The sun just shines on her old white head. 

Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen ; 

Her grandsons raised the flax, and her granddaughters spun it with the 
distaff and the wheel. 



The melodious character of the earth. 

The finish beyond which philosophy cannot go, and does not wish to go, 

The justified mother of men ! 

Walt Whitman. 



Ah I when shall all men's good 
Be each man's rule, and universal peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the land. 
And like a lane of beams athwart the sea. 
Through all the circle of the golden year ? 

Alfbed Tennyson. 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


QL\)c toorlir is too iJlucI] tDxtf) us. 


Have mind that eild aye follows youth ; 


Death follows life with gaping mouth, 


The woiid is too much with us ; late and soon, 


Devouring fruit and flouring grain : 


Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : 


All earthly Joy returns in pain. 


Little we see in nature that is ours ; 




We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 


Wealth, worldly gloir, and rich array, 


This sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 


Are all but thorns laid in thy way, 


The winds that will be howling at all hours, 


Covered with flowers laid in ane train : 


And are up-gathered now like sleeping flow- 


All earthly joy returns in pain. 


ers; 
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune : 


Come never yet May so fresh and green. 


It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be 


But Januar come as wud and keen ; 


A pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 


Was never sic drouth but anis come rain : 


So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 


All earthly joy returns in pain. 


Have glimpses that would make me less for- 
lorn ; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 


Evermair unto this warld's Joy, 


As nearest heir succeedis noy. 
Therefore when joy may not remain, 




His very heir succedis pain. 


William Wordsworth. 






Here health returns in seikness ; 




And mirth returns in heaviness ; 




Toun in desert, forest in plain : 


^11 QEartljln log returns in ||)ain. 


All earthly joy returns in pain. 


Of Lentren in the first morning, 


Freedom returns in wretchedness, 


Early as did the day up-spring. 


And truth returns in doubleness, 


Thus sang ane bird with voice up-plain : 


With fenyeit words to mak men fain : 


All earthly Joy returns in pain. 


All earthly joy returns in pain. 


man ! have mind that thou maun pass ; 


Virtue returnis into vice. 


Eemember that thou are but ass [ashes]. 


And honor into avarice ; 


And sail in ass return again : 


With covetice is conscience slain : 


All earthly joy returns in pain. 


All earthly joy returns in pain. 



630 



POEMS OF SENTUIENT AND REFLECTION. 



Sen earthly joy abidis never, 
Work for the joy that lasts forever : 
For other joy is all but vain : 
All earthly joy returns in pain. 

William Dunbab. 



@:itl)onus. 

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, 

The vapors weep their burden to the ground, 

Man comes, and tills the field and lies beneath. 

And after many a summer dies the swan. 

Me only cruel immortality 

Consumes ; I wither slowly in thine arms. 

Here at the quiet limit of the world, 

A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream 

The ever-silent spaces of the East, 

Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. 

Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a man — 

So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, 

Who madest him thy chosen, that he seemed 

To his great heart none other than a god ! 

I asked thee, " Give me immortality." 

Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile, 

Like wealthy men who care not how they give. 

But thy strong Hours indignant worked their wills. 

And beat me down and marred and wasted me, 

And though they could not end me, left me 

maimed 
To dwell in presence of immortal youth. 
Immortal age beside immortal youth, 
And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love, 
Thy beauty, make amends, though even now, 
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide. 
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears 
To hear me "? Let me go : take back thy gift : 
Why should a man desire in any way 
To vary from the kindly race of men,' 
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 
Where all should pause, as is most meet for all f 

A soft air fans the cloud apart : frhere comes 
A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. 
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals 
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders 

pure. 
And bosom beatine: with a heart renewed. 



Thy cheek begins to redden through the gloom, 
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, 
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team 
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, 
And shake the darkness from their loosened 

manes, 
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. 

Lo ! ever thus thou growest beautiful 

In silence, then before thine answer given 

Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. 

Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears, 
And make me tremble lest a saying learned, 
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true ? 
" The gods themselves cannot recall their gifts." 

Ay me ! ay me ! with what another heart 

In days far-off, and with what other eyes 

I used to watch — if I be he that watched — 

The lucid outline forming round thee ; saw 

The dim curls kindle into sunny rings ; 

Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my 

blood 
Glow with the glow that slowly crimsoned all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy- warm 
With kisses balmier than half -opening buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips that kissed 
Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, 
Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, 
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. 

Yet hold me not forever in thine East : 
How can my nature longer mix with thine ? 
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold 
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet 
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam 
Floats up from these dim fields about the 

homes 
Of happy men that have the power to die. 
And grassy barrows of the happier dead. 
Release me, and restore me to the ground : 
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave ; 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn ; 
I earth in earth forget these empty courts. 
And thee returning on thy silver wheels. 

Alfred Tbnntson. 



il 



ULYSSES. 



631 



It little profits that, an idle king, 

By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 

Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race. 

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not 

me. 
I cannot rest from travel : I will drink 
Life to the lees : all times I have enjoyed 
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those 
That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and when 
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 
Vext the dim sea : I am become a name ; 
For always roaming with a hungry heart 
Much have I seen and known ; cities of men 
And manners, climates, councils, governments, 
Myself not least, but honored of them all ; 
And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 
I am a part of all that I have met ; 
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough 
Gleams that untraveled world, whose margin fades 
Forever and forever when I move. 
How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use ! 
As though to breathe were life. Life pUed on life 
Were all too little, and of one to me 
Little remains : but every hour is saved 
From that eternal silence, something more, 
A bringer of new things ; and vile it were 
For some three suns to store and hoard myself. 
And this gray spirit yearning in desire 
To follow knowledge, like a sinking star, 
' Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and through soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In of&ces of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods. 
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

There lies the port : the vessel puffs her sail : 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, 



Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought 

with me — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old. 
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil ; 
Death closes all : but something, ere the end. 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done. 
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods. 
The lights begin to twinlde from the rocks : 
The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs: the deep 
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down : 
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 
Though much is taken, much abides ; and though 
We are not now that strength which in old days 
Moved earth and heaven ; that which we are, we are ; 
One equal temper of heroic hearts. 
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 

Alfred Tenntsok. 



Slje Cotus-OEaters. 



" Courage ! " he said, and pointed toward the land ; 
"This mounting wave shall roll us shoreward 

soon." 
In the afternoon they came unto a land 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did swoon. 
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon : 
And, like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
Along the cliff to fall, and pause, and fall did seem. 

II. 
A land of streams ! some, like a downward smoke. 
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go ; 
And some through wavering lights and shadows 

broke. 
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 



632 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 

Prom the inner land : far off,' three mountain-tops, 

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 

Stood sunset-flushed : and, dewed with showery 

drops, 
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven 

copse. 

III. 

The charmed sunset lingered low adown 

In the red west : through mountain-clefts the dale 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 

Bordered with palm, and many a winding vale 

And meadow, set with slender galingale ; 

A land where all things always seemed the same ! 

And round about the keel, with faces pale, 

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame. 

The mild-eyed, melancholy Lotus-eaters came. 



Branches they bore of that enchanted stem. 
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave 
To each, but whoso did receive of them. 
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 
Far, far away did seem to mourn and rave 
On alien shores ; and if his fellow spake, 
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ; 
And deep asleep he seemed, yet all awake, 
And music in his ears his beating heart did make. 



They sat them down upon the yellow sand. 
Between the sun and moon, upon the shore ; 
And sweet it was to dream of Father-land, 
Of child, and wife, and slave ; but evermore 
Most weary seemed the sea, weary the oar. 
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
Then some one said, " We will return no more ; " 
And all at once they sang, " Our island home 
Is far beyond the wave ; we will no longer roam." 

CHORIC SONG. 

I. 

There is sweet music here that softer falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the grass. 
Or night-dews on still waters between walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; 



Music that gentlier on the spirit lies 
Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes ; 
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the bliss- 
ful skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep, 
And through the moss the ivies creep. 
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, 
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in 
sleep. 

II. 

Why are we weighed upon with heaviness, 
And utterly consumed with sharp distress. 
While all things else have rest from weariness ? 
All things have rest : why should we toil alone ? 
We only toil, who are the first of things, 
And make perpetual moan. 
Still from one sorrow to another thrown : 
Nor ever fold our wings. 
And cease our wanderings. 
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm ; 
Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, 
" There is no joy but calm ! " 

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of 
things ? 

III. 

Lo ! in the middle of the wood. 

The folded leaf is wooed from out the bud 

With winds upon the branch, and there 

Grows green and broad, and takes no care, 

Sun-steeped at noon, and in the moon 

Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow, 

FaUs, and floats adown the air. 

Lo ! sweetened with the summer-light. 

The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow. 

Drops in a silent autumn night. 

All its allotted length of days. 

The flower ripens in its place. 

Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil. 

Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 



Hateful is the dark-blue sky. 

Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 

Death is the end of life ; ah ! why 

Should life all labor be ? 

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, 

And in a little while our lips are dumb. 



THE LOTUS-EATERS. 



033 



Let us alone. What is it that will last ? 
All things are taken from us, and become 
Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. 
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 
To war with evil ? Is there any peace 
In ever climbing up the climbing wave ? 
All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave. 
In silence ripen, fall, and cease : 
Give us long rest or death, dark death or dreamful 
ease! 

v. 

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream. 

With half-shut eyes ever to seem 

Palling asleep in a half dream ! 

To dream and dream, lUce yonder amber light. 

Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the 

height ; 
To hear each other's whispered speech ; 
Eating the Lotus, day by day, 
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach. 
And tender curving lines of creamy spray : 
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 
To the influence of mild-minded melancholy ; 
To muse and brood and live again in memory. 
With those old faces of our infancy 
Heaped over with a mound of grass, 
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of 

brass ! 

VI. 

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, 
And dear the last embraces of our wives. 
And their warm tears; but all hath suffered 

change ; 
For surely now our household hearths are 

cold : 
Our sons inherit us : our looks are strange : 
And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. 
Or else the island princes, over-bold, 
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings 
Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, 
And our great deeds as half-forgotten things. 
Is there confusion in the little isle ? 
Let what is broken so remain. 
The gods are hard to reconcile : 
'Tis hard to settle order once again. 
There is confusion worse than death, 
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, 
Long labor unto aged breath, 



Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars, 
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot- 
stars. 

TIL 

But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, 

How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing 

lowly). 
With half-dropt eyelids still. 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy. 
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly 
His waters from the purple hill — 
To hear the dewy echoes calling 
Prom cave to cave through the thick-twined 

vine — 
To hear the emerald-colored water falling 
Through many a woven acanthus-wreath divine ! 
Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine. 
Only to hear were sweet, stretched out beneath the 

pine. 

Till. 

The Lotus blooms below the barren peak : 
The Lotus blows by every winding creek : 
All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone : 
Through every hollow cave and alley lone 
Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotus- 
dust is blown. 
We have had enough of action, and of motion we. 
Rolled to starboard, rolled to larboard, when the 

surge was seething free. 
Where the wallowing monster spoiited his foam- 
fountains in the sea. 
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal 

mind. 
In the hollow Lotus-land to live and lie reclined 
On the hills like gods together, careless of man- 
kind. 
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are 

hurled 
Par below them in the valleys, and the clouds are 

lightly curled 
Round their golden houses, gircRed with the gleam- 
ing world ; 
Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted 

lands, 
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roar- 
ing deeps and fiery sands, 
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking 
ships, and praying hands. 




634 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



But they smile, they find a music centred in a 

doleful song 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of 

wrong. 
Like a tale of little meaning, though the words are 

strong ; 
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave 

the soil. 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring 

toil. 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine, and oil ; 
Till they perish and they suffer — some, 'tis whis- 
pered — down in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys 

dwell. 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the 

shore 
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave 

and oar ; 
rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander 

more. Alfred Tennyson. 



®rect ax& tlje ittgtljs. 



Great are the myths — I too delight in them ; 
Great are Adam and Eve — I too look back and 

accept them ; 
Great the risen and fallen nations, and their poets, 

women, sages, inventors, rulers, warriors, and 

priests. 

Great is Liberty ! great is Equality ! I am their 

follower ; 
Helmsmen of nations, choose your craft ! where you 

sail, I sail, 
I weather it out with you, or sink with you. ■ 

Great is Youth, equally great is Old Age, great 
are the Day and Night ; 

Great is Wealth, great is Poverty, great is Ex- 
pression, great is Silence. ' 

Youth, large, lusty, loving — Youth, full of grace, 

force, fascination ! 
Do you know that Old Age may come after you, 

with equal grace, force, fascination ? 



Day, full-blown and splendid — Day of the im- 
mense sun, action, ambition, laughter, 

The Night follows close, with millions of suns, and 
sleep, and restoring darkness. 

Wealth, with the flush hand, fine clothes, hospital- 
ity; 

But then the Soul's wealth, which is candor, knowl- 
edge, pride, enfolding love ; 

(Who goes for men and women showing Poverty 
richer than Wealth % ) 

Expression of speech ! in what is written or 
said, forget not that Silence is also expres- 
sive; 

That Anguish hot as the hottest, and Contempt 
as cold as the coldest, may be without words. 



Great is the Earth, and the way it became what it 

is; 
Do you imagine it has stopped at this ? the increase 

abandoned ? 
Understand, then, that it goes as far onward from 

this, as this is from the times when it lay in 

covering waters and gases, before man had 

appeared. 

Great is the quality of Truth in man ; 

The quality of tmth in man supports itself through 

all changes. 
It is inevitably in the man ; he and it are in love, 

and never leave each other. 

The truth in man is no dictum, it is vital as eye- 
sight ; 

If there be any Soul, there is truth; if there be 
man or woman, there is truth; if there be 
physical or moral, there is truth ; 

If there be equilibrium or volition, there is truth ; 
if there be things at all upon the earth, there 
is truth. 

truth of the earth ! I am determined to press 

my way toward you ; 
Sound your voice ! I scale mountains, or dive in 

the sea after you. 



BAECLAY 


OF URY. 635 


III. 
Great is Language ; it is the mightiest of the sci- 


V. 

Great is Life, real and mystical, wherever and who- 


ences, 


ever ; 


It is the fulness, color, form, diversity of the earth. 


Great is Death; sure as life holds all parts to- 


and of men and women, and of all qualities 


gether. Death holds all parts together. 


and processes ; 




It is greater than wealth, it is greater than build- 


Has Life much purport? — Ah, Death has the 


ings, ships, religions, paintings, music. 


greatest purport. 




Walt Whitman. 


Great is the English speech — what speech is so 




great as the English ? 




Great is the English brood — what brood has so 


Barclag of Hrg. 


vast a destiny as the English ? 




It is the mother of the brood that must rule the 


Up the streets of Aberdeen, 


earth with the new rule ; 


By the kirk and college green, 


The new rule shall rule as the Soul rules, and 


Rode the laird of Ury ; 


as the love, Justice, equality in the Soul 


Close behind him, close beside, 


rule. 


Foul of mouth and evil-eyed. 




Pressed the mob in fury. 


Great is Law; great are the few old landmarks 




of the law. 


Flouted him the drunken churl. 


They are the same in all time, and shall not be dis- 


Jeered at him the serving girl, 


turbed. 


Prompt to please her master ; 




And the begging carlin, late 


lY. 


Fed and clothed at Ury's gate, 


Great is Justice ! 


Cursed him as he passed her. 


Justice is not settled by legislators and laws ; it is 




in the Soul ; 


Yet with calm and stately mien 


It cannot be varied by statutes, any more than 


Up the streets of Aberdeen 


love, pride, the attraction of gravity can ; 


Came he slowly riding ; 


It is immutable; it does not depend on majori- 


And, to all he saw and heard, 


ties; majorities, or what not, come at last 


Answering not with bitter word. 


before the same passionless and exact tri- 


Turning not for chiding. 


bunal. ■ 






Came a troop with broadswords swinging, 


For justice are the grand natural lawyers, and per- 


Bits and bridles sharply ringing. 


fect judges ; it is in their souls ; 


Loose, and free, and fro ward: 


It is well assorted; they have not studied for 


Quoth the foremost : " Ride him down ! 


nothing ; the great includes the less ; 


Push him! prick him ! Through the town 


They rule on the highest grounds — they oversee 


Drive the Quaker coward ! " 


all eras, states, administrations. 






But from out the thickening crowd 


The perfect judge fears nothing; he could go 


Cried a sudden voice and loud : 


front to front before God ; 


" Barclay ! Ho ! a Barclay ! " 


Before the perfect judge all shall stand back ; life 


And the old man at his side 


and death shall stand back ; heaven and heU 


Saw a comrade, battle-tried. 


shall stand back. 


Scarred and sun-burned darkly ; 



636 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Who, with ready weapon bare, 


" Happier I, with loss of all — 


Fronting to the troopers there, 


Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, 


Cried aloud : " God save us ! 


With few friends to greet me — 


Call ye coward him who stood 


Than when reeve and squire were seen 


Ankle-deep in Lutzen's blood, 


Riding out from Aberdeen 


With the brave Gustavus ? " 


With bared heads to meet me ; 


" Nay, I do not need thy sword, 


" When each good wife, o'er and o'er, 


Comrade mine," said Ury's lord ; 


Blessed me as I passed her door ; 


" Put it up, I pray thee ; 


And the snooded daughter, 


Passive to his holy will. 


Through her casement glancing down, 


Trust I in my Master still. 


Smiled on him who bore renown 


Even though he slay me. 


From red fields of slaughter. 


" Pledges of thy love and faith. 


" Hard to feel the stranger's scoff. 


Proved on many a field of death, 


Hard the old friends' falling off, 


Not by me are needed." 


Hard to learn forgiving ; 


Marvelled much that henchman bold, 


But the Lord his own rewards. 


That his laird, so stout of old, 


And his love with theirs accords, 


Now so meekly pleaded. 


Warm, and fresh, and living. 


" Woe 's the day," he sadly said, 


" Through this dark and stormy night 


With a slowly shaking head, 


Faith beholds a feeble light 


And a look of pity ; 


Up the blackness streaking ; 


" Ury's honest lord reviled. 


Knowing God's own time is best. 


Mock of knave and sport of child, 


In a patient hope I rest 


In his own good city ! 


For the full day-breaking ! " 


" Speak the word, and, master mine, 


So the laird of Ury said. 


As we charged on Tilly's line, 


Turning slow his horse's head 


And his Walloon lancers. 


Towards the Tolbooth prison, 


Smiting through their midst, we'll teach 


Where, through iron gates, he heard 


Civil look and decent speech 


Poor disciples of the Word 


To these boyish prancers ! " 


Preach of Christ arisen ! 


"Marvel not, mine ancient friend — 


Not in vain, confessor old, 


Like beginning, like the end ! " 


Unto us the tale is told 


Quoth the laird of Ury ; 


Of thy day of trial ! 


" Is the sinful servant more 


Every age on him who strays 


Than his gracious Lord who bore 


From its broad and beaten ways. 


Bonds and stripes in Jewry ? 


Pours its seven-fold vial. 


" Give me Joy that in His name 


Happy he whose inward ear 


I can bear, with patient frame, 


Angel comfortings can hear, 


All these vain ones offer ; 


O'er the rabble's laughter ; 


While for them He suffered long. 


And, while hatred's fagots burn. 


Shall I answer wrong with wrong. 


Glimpses through the smoke discern 


Scoffing with the scoffer? 


Of the good hereafter. 



HABMOSAN. 



637 



Knowing this — that never yet 
Sliare of truth was vainly set 

In the world's wide fallow ; 
After hands shall sow the seed, 
After hands from hill and mead 

Eeap the harvests yellow. 

Thus, with somewhat of the seer, 
Must the moral pioneer 

From the future borrow — 
Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, 
And, on midnight's sky of rain. 

Faint the golden morrow ! 

John Geebnlbaf Whittier. 



3;j)e Corbs of aiiule. 

The lords of Thule it did not please 

That Willegis their bishop was ; 

For he was a wagoner's son. 

And they drew, to do him scorn, 

Wheels of chalk upon the wall ; 

He found them in chamber, found them in 
hall. 

But the pious Willegis 

Could not be moved to bitterness ; 

Seeing the wheels upon the wall. 

He bade his servants a painter call ; 

And said, — " My friend, paint now for me. 

On every wall, that I may see. 

A wheel of white in a field of red ; 

Underneath in letters plain to be read — 
' Willegis, bishop now by name, 
Forget not whence you came ! ' " 

The lords of Thule were full of shame — 
They wiped away their words of blame ; 
For they saw that scorn and jeer 
Cannot wound the wise man's ear. 
And all the bishops that after him came 
Quartered the wheel with their arms of fame. 
Thus came to pious Willegis 
Glory out of bitterness. 

Anonymous. (German.) 
Anonymous Translation. 



jpartnosan. 

Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian 

throne was done, 
And the Moslem's fiery valor had the crowning 

victory won. 

Harmosan, the last and boldest the invader to 
defy. 

Captive, overborne by numbers, they were bring- 
ing forth to die. 

Then exclaimed that noble captive : " Lo, I perish 
in my thirst ; 

Give me but one drink of water, and let then ar- 
rive the worst ! " 

In his hand he took the goblet : but a while the 

draught forbore, 
Seeming doubtfully the purpose of the foeman to 

explore. 

WeU might then have paused the bravest — for, 

around him, angry foes 
With a hedge of naked weapons did the lonely 

man enclose. 

" But what fearest thou ? " cried the caliph ; " is it, 
friend, a secret blow f 

Fear it not ! our gallant Moslems no such treach- 
erous dealing know. 

" Thou may'st quench thy thirst securely, for thou 

shalt not die before 
Thou hast drunk that cup of water — this reprieve 

is thine — no more ! " 

Quick the satrap dashed the goblet down to earth 

with ready hand. 
And the liquid sank for ever, lost amid the burning 

sand. 

" Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the water 

of that cup 
I have drained ; then bid thy servants that spilled 

water gather up ! " 

For a moment stood the caliph as by doubtful pas- 
sions stirred — 

Then exclaimed : " For ever sacred must remain a 
monarch's word. 



C38 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



" Bring another cup, and straightway to the noble 

Persian give : 
Drink, I said before, and perish — now I bid thee 

drink and live ! " 

KiCHABD ChBNEVIX TKBNCH. 



Salber. 

Balder, the white sun-god, has departed ! 

Beautiful as summer dawn was he ; 
Loved of gods and men — the royal-hearted 
Balder, the white sun-god, has departed — 

Has gone home where all the brave ones be. 

For the tears of the imperial mother, 

For a universe that weeps and prays. 
Rides Hermoder forth to seek his brother — 
Rides for love of that distressful mother, 
Through lead-colored glens and cross-blue ways. 

With the howling wind and raving torrent. 
Nine days rode he, deep and deeper down — 

Reached the vast death-kingdom, rough and hor- 
rent. 

Reached the lonely bridge that spans the torrent 
Of the moaning river by Hell-town. 

There he found the ancient portress standing — 

Vexer of the mind and of the heart : 
" Balder came this way," to his demanding. 
Cried aloud that ancient portress, standing — 
'' Balder came, but Balder did depart ; 

" Here he could not dwell. He is down yonder — 

Northward, further, in the death-realm he." 
Rode Hermoder on in silent wonder — 
Mane of Gold fled fast and rushed down yonder ! 
Brave and good must young Hermoder be. 

For he leaps sheer over Hela's portal. 

Drops into the huge abyss below. 

There he saw the beautiful immortal — 

Saw him, Balder, under Hela's portal — 

Saw him, and forgot his pain and woe. 

t 

" my Balder ! have I, have I found thee — 

Balder, beautiful as summer morn ? 
my sun-god ! hearts of heroes crowned thee 
For their king ; they lost, but now have found thee ; 

Gods and men shall not be left forlorn. 



"Balder ! brother ! the divine has vanished — 

The eternal splendors all have fled ; 
Truth and love and nobleness are banished ; 
The heroic and divine have vanished ; 

Nature has no god, and earth lies dead. 

"Come thou back, my Balder — king and broth- 
er ! 
Teach the hearts of men to love the gods ! 
Come thou back, and comfort our great moth- 
er — 
Come with truth and bravery. Balder, brother — 
Bring the godlike back to men's abodes ! " 

But the Nomas let him pray unheeded — 

Balder never was to come again. 
Vainly, vainly young Hermoder pleaded — 
Balder never was to come. Unheeded, 

Young Hermoder wept and prayed in vain. 

Oh, the trueness of this ancient story ! 

Even now it is, as it was then. 
Earth hath lost a portion of her glory ; 
And like Balder, in the ancient story, 

Never comes the beautiful again. 

Still the young Hermoder journeys bravely, 

Through lead-colored glens and cross-bhie ways ; 
Still he calls his brother, pleading gravely — 
Still to the death-kingdom ventures bravely — 
Calmly to the eternal terror prays. 

But the fates relent not ; strong endeavor, 

Courage, noble feeling, are in vain ; 
For the beautiful has gone for ever. 
Vain are courage, genius, strong endeavor — 

Never comes the beautiful again. 

Do you think I counsel Weak despairing f 

No ! like young Hermoder I would ride ; 
With an humble, yet a gallant daring, 
I would leap unquailing, undespairing, 
Over the huge precipice's side. 

Dead and gone is the old world's ideal. 

The old arts and old religion fled ; 
But I gladly live amid the real, 
And I seek a worthier ideal. 

Courage, brothers, God is overhead ! 

Anonymous. 



SOVL AND BODY. 639 




He weaves, and is clothed with derision ; 


Soul ant JSobg. 


Sows, and he shall not reap ; 


Before the beginning of years 

There came to the makijig of man 
Time, with a gift of tears ; 


His life is a watch or a vision 
Between a sleep and a sleep. 

AlGEKNON ChABLES S-RTtNBIJENE. 


Grief, with a glass that ran ; 




Pleasure, with sin for leaven ; 




Summer, with flowers that fell ; 
Kemembrance, fallen from heaven ; 


^bbress to tl^e ilTutnins at Bcl^oni's 
©jellibition. 


And madness, risen from hell ; 


Strength, without hands to smite ; 


And thou hast walked about (how strange a 


Love, that endures for a breath ; - 


story ! ) 


Night, the shadow of light ; 


In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago. 


And life, the shadow of death. 


When the Memnonium was in all its glory, 




And time had not begun to overthrow 


And the high gods took in hand 


Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous. 


Fire and tlie falling of tears. 


Of which the very ruins are tremendous. 


And a measure of sliding sand 




From under the feet of the years, 


Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted dummy ; 


And froth and drift of the sea, 


Thou hast a tongue — come — let us hear its 


And dust of the laboring earth, / 


tune ; 


And bodies of things to be 


Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above ground. 


In the houses of death and of birth, 


mummy ! 


And wrought with weeping and laughter. 


Revisiting the glimpses of the moon — 


And fashioned with loathing and love. 


Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures. 


With life before and after. 


But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and 


And death beneath and above. 


features. 


For a day and a night and a morrow. 




That his strength might endure for a span. 


Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect — 


With travail and heavy sorrow, 


To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? 


The holy spirit of man. 


Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 




Of either pyramid that bears his name ? 


From the winds of the North and the South 


Is Porapey's Pillar really a misnomer? 


They gathered as unto strife ; 


Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer? 


They breathed up in his mouth, 




They filled his body with life ; 


Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden 


Eyesight and speech they wrought 


By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade ; 


For the veils of the soul therein ; 


Then say what secret melody was hidden 


A time for labor and thought, 


In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played? 


A time to serve and to sin ; 


Perhaps thou wert a priest ; if so, my struggles 


They gave him light in his ways, 


Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles. 


And love, and a space for delight. 




And beauty and length of days. 


Perhaps that very hand, now pinioned flat, 


And night, and sleep in the night. 


Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass ; 


His speech is a burning fire ; 


Or dropped a half -penny in Homer's hat ; 


With his lips he travaileth ; 


Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass ; 


In his heart is a blind desire, 


Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 


In his eyes foreknowledge of death. 


A torch at the' great temple's dedication. 



640 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, 
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled ; 

For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed, 
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled : 

Antiquity appears to have begun 

Long after thy primeval race was run. 

Thou could'st develop — if that withered tongue 
Might tell us what those sightless orbs have 
seen — 
How the world looked when it was fresh and 
young. 
And the great deluge still had left it green ; 
Or was it then so old that history's pages 
Contained no record of its early ages ? 

Still silent ! incommunicative elf ! 

Art sworn to secrecy ? then keep thy vows ; 
But prythee tell us something of thyself — 

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house ; 
Since in the world of spirits thou hast slum- 
bered — 
What hast thou seen — what strange a,d ventures 
numbered ? 

Since first thy form was in this box extended 
We have, above ground, seen some strange muta- 
tions : 
The Roman empire has begun and ended — 
New worlds have risen — we have lost old na- 
tions ; 
And countless kings have into dust been humbled, 
While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. 

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head. 
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, 

Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering 
tread — 
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis ; 

And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder, 

When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? 

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed. 
The nature of thy private life unfold : 

A lieart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast, 
And tears adown that dusty cheek have rolled ; 

Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that 
face? 

What was thy name and station, age and race? 



Statue of flesh — Immortal of the dead ! 

Imperishable type of evanescence ! 
Posthumous man — who quitt'st thy narrow 
bed, 
And standest undecayed within our presence ! 
Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morn- 
ing, 
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its 
warning. 

Why should this worthless tegument endure. 
If its undying guest be lost for ever ? 

Oh ! let us keep the soul embalmed and pure 
In living virtue — that when both must sever. 

Although corruption may our frame consume, 

The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom ! 

Horace Ssiith. 



®bc to an Snbian ®olb Oloin. 

Slave of the dark and dirty mine ! 

What vanity has brought thee here ? 
How can I love to see thee shine 

So bright, whom I have bought so dear ? 

The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear 
For twUight converse, arm in arm ; 

The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear 
When mirth and music wont to charm. 

By Cherical's dark, wandering streams, 

Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, 
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams 

Of Teviot loved while still a child ; 

Of castled rocks stupendous piled 
By Esk or Eden's classic wave. 

Where loves of youth and friendships smiled 
Uneursed by thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade I 

The perished bliss of youth's first prime, 
That once so bright on fancy played. 

Revives no more in after-time. 

Far from my sacred natal clime, 
I haste to an imtimely grave ; 

The daring thoughts that soared sublime 
Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. 



THE FISHER'S COTTAGE. 



641 



Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light 
Glooms baleful as the tomb-fire drear : 

A gentle vision comes by night 
My lonely, widowed heart to cheer : 
Her eyes are dim with many a tear 

That once were guiding stars to mine ; 
Her fond heart throbs with many a fear ! 

I caimot bear to see thee shine. 

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, 
I left a heart that loved me true I 

I crossed the tedious ocean-wave, 
To roam in climes unlcind and new. 
The cold wind of the stranger blew 

ChiU on my withered heart ; the grave, 
Dark and imtimely, met my view — 

And all for thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Ha ! com'st thou now, so late to mock 

A wanderer's banished heart forlorn, 
Now that his frame the lightning-shock 

Of sun-rays tipped with death has borne ? 

Prom love, from friendship, country, torn, 
To memory's fond regrets the prey, — 

Vile slave, thy yellow di'oss I scorn ! 
Go mix thee with thy kindred clay ! 

John LeVden. 



8ri)e £\5\\tx'B dTottagc, 

We sat by the fisher's cottage, 
And looked at the stormy tide ; 

The evening mist came rising, 
And floating far and wide. 

One by one in the light-house 
The lamps shone out on high ; 

And far on the dim horizon 
A ship went sailing by. 

We spoke of storm and shipwreck — 
Of sailors, and how they live ; 

Of journeys 'twixt sky and water, 
And the sorrows and joys they give. 

W^e spoke of distant countries, 
In regions strange and fair ; 

And of the wondi'ous beings 
And curious customs there ; 



4S 



Of perfumed lamps on the Ganges, 
Which are launched in the twilight hour ; 

And the dark and silent Brahmins, 
Who worship the lotus-flower ; 

Of the wretched dwarfs of Lapland — 
Broad-headed, wide-mouthed, and small — 

Who crouch round their oil-fires, cooking. 
And chatter and scream and bawl. 

And the maidens earnestly listened. 

Till at last we spoke no more ; 
The ship like a shadow had vanished, 

And darkness fell deep on the shore. 

Heinrich Heine. (German.) 
Translation of Chakles G. Leland. 



^\)t SCtDO ®ceans. 

Two seas, amid the night. 

In the moonshine roll and sparkle — 
Now spread in the silver light, 

Now sadden, and wail, and darkle. 

The one has a billowy motion. 
And from land to land it gleams ; 

The other is sleep's wide ocean, 
And its glimmering waves are dreams. 

The one, with murmur and roar, 
Bears fleets around coast and islet ; 

The other, without a shore, 
Ne'er knew the track of a pilot. 

John Sterling. 



tJcrses 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, 
DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF 
JUAN FERNANDEZ. 

I AM monarch of all I survey — 

My right there is none to dispute ; 
From the centre all round to the sea, 

I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 
Solitude ! where are the charms . 

That sages have seen in thy face ? 
Better dwell in the midst of alarms 

Than reign in this horrible place. 



642 



P0E3IS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



I am out of humanity's reach ; 

I mast finish my journey alone, 
Never hear the sweet music of speech — 

I start at the sound of my own. 
Tlie beasts that roam over the plain 

My form with indifEerence see ; 
They are so unacquainted with man, 

Their tameness is shocking to me. 

Society, friendship, and love, 

Divinely bestowed upon man ! 
Oh, had I the wings of a dove, 

How soon would I taste you again ! 
My sorrows I then might assuage 

In the ways of religion and truth — 
Might learn from the wisdom of age. 

And be cheered with the sallies of youth. 

Religion ! What treasure untold 

Resides in that heavenly word ! — 
More precious than silver and gold. 

Or all that this earth can afford ; 
But the sound of the church-going bell 

These valleys and rocks never heard. 
Never sighed at the sound of a knell. 

Or smiled when a sabbath appeared. 

Ye winds that have made me your sport, 

Convey to this desolate shore 
Some cordial endearing report 

Of the land I shall visit no more ! 
My friends — do they now and then send 

A wish or a thought after me ? 
Oh tell me I yet have a friend, 

Though a friend I am never to see. 

How fleet is a glance of the mind ! 

Compared with the speed of its flight, 
The tempest itself lags behind, 

And the swift-winged arrows of light. 
When I think of my own native land. 

In a moment I seem to be there ; 
But, alas ! recollection at hand 

Soon hurries me back to desp£|ir. 

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, 
The beast is laid down in his lair ; 

Even here is a season of rest, 
And I to my cabin repair. 



There 's mercy in every place. 

And mercy — encouraging thought! — 
Gives even affliction a grace. 

And reconciles man to his lot. 

William Cowpbr. 



Abou Ben Adeem (may his tribe increase !) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace. 
And saw within the moonlight in his room. 
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, 
An angel writing in a book of gold : 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold. 
And to the presence in the room he said, 
'' What writest thou ? " — The vision raised its head, 
And, with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Answered — "The names of those who love the 

Lord." 
" And is mine one ? " said Abou ; " Nay, not so," 
Replied the angel. — Abou spoke more low, 
But cheerly still ; and said, " I pray thee, then. 
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night 

It came again, with a great wakening light. 

And showed the names whom love of God had 

blessed — 
And, lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest ! 

Leigh Hunt. 



QTlje Steamboat. 

See how yon flaming herald treads 

The ridged and rolling waves, 
As, crashing o'er their crested heads, 

She bows her surly slaves ! 
With foam before and fire behind, 

She rends the clinging sea, 
That flies before the roaring wind. 

Beneath her hissing lee. 

The morning spray, like sea-born flowers 
With heaped and glistening bells, 

Falls round her fast in ringing showers. 
With every wave that swells ; 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 



643 



And, flaming o'er the midnight deep, 

In lurid fringes thrown, 
The living gems of ocean sweep 

Along her flashing zone. 

With clashing wheel, and lifting keel, 

And smoking torch on high, 
Wlien winds are loud, and billows reel, 

She thunders, foaming, by ! 
When seas are silent and serene 

With even beam she glides, 
The sunshine glimmering through the green 

That skirts her gleaming sides. 

Now, like a wild nymph, far apart 

She veils her shadowy form. 
The beating of her restless heart 

Still sounding through the storm ; 
Now answers, like a courtly dame, 

The reddening surges o'er. 
With flying scarf of spangled flame, 

The pharos of the shore. 

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep. 

Who trims his narrowed sail ; 
To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep 

Her broad breast to the gale ; 
And many a foresail, scooped and strained, 

Shall break from yard and stay. 
Before this smoky wreath hath stained 

The rising mist of day. 

Hark ! hark ! I hear yon whistling shroud, 

I see yon quivering mast — 
The black throat of the hunted cloud 

Is panting forth the blast ! 
An hour, and, whirled like winnowing chaff. 

The giant surge shall fling 
His tresses o'er yon pennon-stafE, 

White as the sea-bird's wing ! 

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep ! 

Nor wind nor wave shall tire 
Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap 

With floods of living fire ; 
Sleep on — and when the morning light 

Streams o'er the shining bay. 
Oh, think of those for whom the night 

Shall never wake in day ! 

Oliter Wendell Holmes. 



^\\t tillage JBlflcksmitl). 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree 

The village smithy stands : 
The smith, a mighty man is he. 

With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 

Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long ; 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat — 

He earns whate'er he can ; 
And looks the whole world in the face. 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night. 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow — 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell. 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children, coming home from school, 

Look in at the open door ; 
They love to see the flaming forge. 

And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church. 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach — 

He hears his daughter's voice. 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice. 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more. 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing — 
Onward through life he goes ; 

Each morning sees some task begin, 
Each evening sees it close — 

Something attempted, something done, 
Has earned a night's repose. 



644 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 


Anxious no more, the merchant sees 


For the lesson thou hast taught ! 


The mist drive dark before the breeze, 


Thus at the flaming forge of life 


The storm-cloud on the hill ; 


Our fortunes must be wrought — 


Calmly he rests — though far away. 


Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 


In boisterous climes, his vessel lay — 


Each burning deed and thought ! 


Reliant on our skill. 


Henkt Wadsworth Longfellow. 






Say on what sands these links shall sleep, 




Fathoms beneath the solemn deep 1 


QClje gong of X\\z iTorge. 


By Afric's pestilential shore ; 

By many an iceberg, lone and hoar ; 


Clang, clang ! the massive anvils ring ; 


By many a palmy western isle. 


Clang, clang ! a hundred hammers swing — 


Basking in spring's perpetual smile ; 


Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky, 


By stormy Labrador. 


The mighty blows still multiply — 




Clang, clang ! 

Say, brothers of the dusky brow. 

What are your strong arms forging now ? 


Say, shall they feel the vessel reel, 


When to the battery's deadly peal 

The crashing broadside makes reply ; 
Or else, as at the glorious Nile, 


Clang, clang ! — we forge the coulter now — 


Hold grappling ships, that strive the while 


The coulter of the kindly plough. 


For death or victory % 


Sweet Mary mother, bless our toil ! 




May its broad furrow still unbind 


Hurrah ! — cling, clang ! — once more, what glows, 


To genial rains, to sun and wind, 


Dark brothers of the forge, beneath 


The most benignant soil ! 


The ii'on tempest of your blows. 




The furnace's red breath ? 


Clang, clang ! — our coulter's course shall be 




On many a sweet and sheltered lea. 


Clang, clang ! — a burning torrent, clear 


By many a streamlet's silver tide — 


And brilliant of bright sparks, is poured 


Amidst the song of morning birds, 


Around, and up in the dusky air. 


Amidst the low of sauntering herds — 


'1 */ J 

As our hammers forge the sword. 


Amidst soft breezes, which do stray 


O 


Through woodbine hedges and sweet May, 


The sword ! — a name of dread ; yet when 


Along the green hill's side. 


Upon the freeman's thigh 'tis bound — 


When regal autumn's bounteous hand 


"While for his altar and his hearth. 


With wide-spread glory clothes the land — 


While for the land that gave him birth. 


When to the valleys, from the brow 


The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound — 


Of each resplendent slope, is rolled 


How sacred is it then ! 


A ruddy sea of living gold — 




We bless, we bless the plough. 


Whenever for the truth and right 




It flashes in the van of fight — 


Clang, clang ! — again, my mates, what glows 


Whether in some wild mountain-pass, 


Beneath the hammer's potent blows ? 


As that where fell Leonidas ; 


Clink, clank ! — we forge the gi^nt chain. 


Or on some sterile plain and stern. 


Which bears the gallant vessel's strain 


A Marston, or a Bannockburn ; 


'Midst stormy winds and adverse tides ; 


Or amidst crags and bursting rills. 


Secured by this, the good ship braves 


The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills ; 


The rocky roadstead, and the waves 


Or as when sunk the Armada's pride. 


Which thunder on her sides. 


It gleams above the stormy tide — 



i 



THE ANGHORSMITES. 



645 



Still, still, whene'er the battle-word 
Is liberty, when men do stand 
For justice and their native land — 

Then Heaven bless the sword ! 



Anontmous. 



Slje ^ncl)orsmitl)s. 

Like JEtna's dread volcano, see the ample forge 
Large heaps upon large heaps of jetty fuel gorge, 
While, salamander-like, the ponderous anchor lies 
Glutted with vivid fire, through all its pores that 

flies ; — 
The dingy anchorsmiths, to renovate their strength. 
Stretched out in death-like sleep, are snoring at 

their length. 
Waiting the master's signal when the tackle's 

force 
Shall, like split rocks, the anchor from the fire 

divorce ; 
While, as old Vulcan's Cyclops did the anvil bang. 
In deafening concert shall their ponderous ham- 
mers clang. 
And into symmetry the mass incongruous beat, 
To save from adverse winds and waves the 'gallant 
British fleet. 

Now, as more vivid and intense each splinter 

flies. 
The temper of the fire the skilful master tries ; 
And, as the dingy hue assumes a brilliant red. 
The heated anchor feeds that fire on which it 

fed: 
The huge sledge-hammers round in order they 

arrange. 
And waking anchorsmiths await the looked-for 

change. 
Longing with all their force the ardent mass to 

smite. 
When issuing from the fire arrayed in dazzling 

white ; 
And, as old Vulcan's Cyclops did the anvil bang. 
To make in concert rude their ponderous hammers 

clang. 
So the misshapen lumps to symmetry they beat, 
To save from adverse winds and waves the gallant 

British fleet. 



The preparations thicken ; with forks the fire they 
goad; 

And now twelve anchorsmiths the heaving bellows 
load; 

While armed from every danger, and in grim 
array. 

Anxious as howling demons waiting for their 
prey: 

The forge the anchor yields from out its fiery 
maw, 

Which on the anvU prone, the cavern shouts hur- 
rah! 

And now the scorched beholders want the power to 
gaze. 

Faint with its heat, and dazzled with its powerful 
rays; 

While, as old Vulcan's Cyclops did the anvil 
bang, , 

To forge Jove's thunderbolts, their ponderous ham- 
mers clang ; 

And, till its fire 's extinct, the monstrous mass they 
beat 

To save from adverse winds and waves the gallant 
British fieet. 

Chables Dibdin. 



Wc)t Gorging of tl)c !Xncl)or. 

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ! 'tis at a 

white heat now — 
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased ; though, 

on the forge's brow. 
The little flames stUl fitfully play through the 

sable mound ; 
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths 

ranking round ; 
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands 

only bare. 
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the 

windlass there. 

The windlass strains the tackle-chains — the black 

mould heaves below ; 
And red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at 

every throe. 
It rises, roars, rends all outright — Vulcan, what 

a glow ! 



646 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright — the high 
sun shines not so ! 

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fear- 
ful show ! 

The roof-ribs swarth, the eandent hearth, the ruddy 
lurid row 

Of smiths .that stand, an ardent band, like men 
before the foe ! 

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sail- 
ing monster slow 

Sinks on the anvil — all about, the faces fiery 
grow: 

" Hurrah ! " they shout, " leap out, leap out ! " 
bang, bang ! the sledges go ; 

Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high 
and low ; 

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squash- 
ing blow ; 

The leathern mail rebounds the hail ; the rattling 
cinders strew 

The ground around ; at every bound the swelter- 
ing fountains flow ; 

And, thick and loud, the swinking crowd at every 
stroke pant " ho ! " 

Leap out, leap out, my masters ! leap out, and lay 
on load ! 

Let's forge a goodly anchor — a bower thick and 
broad ; 

For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I 
bode; 

And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous 
road — 

The low reef roaring on her lee ; the roll of ocean 
poured 

From stem to stem, sea after sea; the mainmast 
by the board ; 

The bulwarks down ; the rudder gone ; the boats 
stove at the chains ; 

But courage still, brave mariners — the bower yet 
remains ! 

And not an inch to flinch he deigns — save when 
ye pitch sky high ; 

Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear 
nothing — here am I ! " 

Swing in your strokes in order ! let foot and hand 

keep time ; 
Your blows make music sweeter far than any 

steeple's chime. 



But while ye swing your sledges, sing ; and let the 

burthen be — 
The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen 

we ! 
Strike in, strike in ! — the sparks begin to dull their 

rustling red ; 
Our hammers ring with sharper din — our work will 

soon be sped ; 
Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich 

array 
For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy 

couch of clay ; 
Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry 

craftsmen here 
For the yeo-heave-o, and the heave-away, and the 

sighing seamen's cheer — 
When, weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from 

love and home ; 
And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the 

ocean-foam. 

In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at 

last ; 
A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat 

was cast. 
trusted and trustworthy guard! if thou hadst 

life like me. 
What pleasui-e would thy toils reward beneath the 

deep-green sea! 
deep sea-diver, who might then behold such 

sights as thou? — 
The hoary monster's palaces! — Methinks what joy 

'twere now 
To go plumb-plunging down, amid the assembly 

of the whales. 
And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath 

their scourging tails ! 
Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea- 
unicorn. 
And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all 

his ivory horn ; 
To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade for- 
lorn; 
And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to laugh his 

jaws to scorn : 
To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid 

Norwegian isles 
He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed 

miles — 



i 



SfflFS AT si: A. 647 


Till, snorting like an under-sea volcano, off he 




rolls ; 


0l)ips ot Bea. 


Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished 




shoals 


I HAVE ships that went to sea, 


Of his back-browsing ocean-calves ; or, haply, in a 


More than fifty years ago ; 


cove 


None have yet come home to me. 


Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's 


But are sailing to and fro. 


love. 


I have seen them in my sleep, 


To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or, hard by- 


Plunging through the shoreless deep, 


icy lands. 


With tattered sails and battered hulls, 


To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean 


While around them screamed the gulls. 


sands. 


Flying low, flying low. 


broad-armed fisher of the deep ! whose sports 


I have wondered why they stayed 


can equal thine ? 


Prom me, sailing round the world ; 


The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy 


And I've said, " I'm half afraid 


cable-line ; 


That their sails will ne'er be fiu-led." 


And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day 


Great the treasures that they hold, 


by day, 


Silks, and plumes, and bars of gold ; 


Through sable sea and breaker white the giant 


While the spices that they bear 


game to play. 


Fill with fragrance all the air. 


But, shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name 

I gave : 
A fisher's Joy is to destroy — thine office is to save. 


As they sail, as they sail. 


Ah ! each sailor in the port 


lodger in the sea-kings' halls ! couldst thou but 


Knows that I have ships at sea. 


understand 


Of the winds and waves the sport, 


Whose be the white bones by thy side — or who 


And the sailors pity me. 


that dripping band, 


Oft they come and with me walk, 


Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round 


Cheering me with hopeful talk, 


about thee bend, 


Till I put my fears aside, 


With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing 


And, contented, watch the tide 


their ancient friend — 


Rise and fall, rise and fall. 


Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with 




larger steps round thee, 


I have waited on the piers, 


Thine iron side would swell with pride — thou'dst 


Gazing for them down the bay. 


leap within the sea ! 


Days and nights for many years. 




Till I turned heart-sick away. 


Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant 


But the pilots, when they land. 


strand 


Stop and take me by the hand. 


To shed their blood so freely for the love of father- 


Saying, " You will live to see 


land — 


Your proud vessels come from sea. 


Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy 


One and all, one and all." 


churchyard grave 




So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave ! 


So I never quite despair. 


Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly 


Nor let hope or courage fail ; 


sung, 


And some day when skies are fair, 


Honor him for their memory whose bones he goes 


Up the bay my ships will sail, 


among I 


I shall buy then all I need, — 


Samuel Ferguson. 


Prints to look at, books to read. 



648 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Horses, wines, and works of art, — 
Everything except a heart — 
That is lost, that is lost. 

Once when I was pure and young, 

Richer, too, than I am now. 
Ere a cloud was o'er me flung, 

Or a wrinkle creased my brow. 
There was one whose heart was mine ; 
But she 's something now divine. 
And though come my ships from sea, 
They can bring no heart to me 

Evermore, evermore. 

Egbert Barbt Coffin. 



% (Urg from \\\t 61) ore. 

Come down, ye graybeard mariners. 

Unto the wasting shore ! 
The morning winds are up ; the gods 

Bid me to dream no more. 
Come, tell me whither I must sail, 

What peril there may be. 
Before 1 take my life in hand 

And venture out to sea ! 

" We may not tell thee where to sail. 

Nor what the dangers are ; 
Each sailor soundeth for himself, 

Each hath a separate star ; 
Each sailor soundeth for himself, 

And on the awful sea 
What we have learned is ours alone ; 

We may not tell it thee." 

Come back, ghostly mariners. 

Ye who have gone before ! 
I dread the dark, impetuous tides ; 

I dread the further shore. 
Tell me the secret of the waves ; 

Say what my fate shall be — 
Quick ! for the mighty winds are up, 

And will not wait for me. , 

" Hail and farewell, voyager ! 

Thyself must read the waves ; 
What we have learned of sun and storm 

Lies with us in our graves : 



What we have learned of sun and storm 

Is ours alone to know. 
The winds are blowing out to sea : 

Take up thy life and go ! " 

Ellen Mackat Hutchinson. 



Where lies the land to which the ship would 

go? 
Par, far ahead, is all her seamen know ; 
And where the land she travels from? Away, 
Par, far behind, is all that they can say. 

On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face, 
Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace ! 
Or o'er the stern reclining, watch below 
The foaming wake far widening as we go. 

On stormy nights, when wild northwesters rave. 
How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave ! 
The dripping sailor on the reeling mast 
Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. 

Where lies the land to which the ship would 

gol 
Par, far ahead, is all her seamen know ; 
And where the land she travels from ? Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 

Abthitb Hugh Clough. 



2[l)c CIountrjiTnan. 

What pleasures have great princes 
More dainty to their choice. 

Than herdmen wild, who careless 
In quiet life rejoice ; 

And fortune's favors scorning. 

Sing sweet in summer morning? 

All day their flocks each tendeth ; 

At night they take their rest ; 
More quiet than who sendeth 

His ship into the East, 
Where gold and pearl are plenty. 
But getting very dainty. 



THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 



649 



For lawyers and their pleading, 
They 'steem it not a straw : 

They think that honest meaning 
Is of itself a law : 

Where conscience judgeth plainly, 

They spend no money vainly. 

O happy who thus liveth. 
Not caring much for gold ; 

With clothing, which sufficeth 
To keep him from the cold : 

Though poor and plain his diet, 

Yet merry it is and quiet. 



Anonymous. 



@i;i)e Solbier's JDream. 

Our bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had 
lowered. 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the 
sky; 
And thousands had sunk on the ground over- 
powered — 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
By the wolf -scaring fagot that guarded the slain, 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array 
Par, far I had roamed on a desolate track : 

'Twas autumn — and sunshine arose on the way 
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me 
back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 
In life's morning march, when my bosom was 
young ; 

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers 



Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore 
Prom my home and my weeping friends never to 
part ; 

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er. 
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. 



Stay, stay with us! — rest; thou art weary and 
wornl 
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; 
But sorrow returned with the dawning of mom. 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 
Thomas Campbell. 



Q[l)e Sattle of Blcntjeim. 

It was a summer evening — 

Old Kaspar's work was done, 
And he before his cottage door 

Was sitting in the sun ; 
And by him sported on the green 
His little grandchUd Wilhelmine. 

She saw her brother Peterkin 
Roll something large and round, 

Which he beside the rivulet. 
In playing there, had found ; 

He came to ask what he had found. 

That was so large, and smooth, and round. 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 

Who stood expectant by ; 
And then the old man shook his head ; 

And, with a natural sigh — 
" 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, 
" Who fell in the great victory. 

" I find them in the garden, 
For there 's many here about ; 

And often when I go to plough. 
The ploughshare turns them out ; 

For many thousand men," said he, 

" Were slain in the great victory." 

" Now tell us what 'twas all about," 

Young Peterkin he cries ; 
And little Wilhelmine looks up 

With wonder-waiting eyes — 
" Now tell us all about the war. 
And what they fought each other for." 

" It was the English," Kaspar cried, 
" Who put the French to rout ; 

But what they fought each other for, 
I could not well make out ; 



650 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



But everybody said," quoth he, 
" That 'twas a famous victory. 

" My father lived at Blenheim then, 

Yon little stream hard by ; 
They burnt his dwelling to the ground. 

And he was forced to fly ; 
So with his wife and child he fled. 
Nor had he where to rest his head. 

" With fire and sword the country round 

Was wasted far and wide : 
And many a childing mother there, 

And new-born baby died ; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 

" They say it was a shocking sight 

After the field was won — 
For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun ; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
After a famous victory. 

" Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, 

And our good Prince Eugene." 
" Why, 'twas a very wicked thing ! " 

Said little Wilhelmine. 
" Nay — nay — my little girl ! " quoth he, 
" It was a famous victory. 

" And everybody praised the duke. 

Who this great fight did win." 
" But what good came of it at last?" 

Quoth little Peterkin. 
" Why, that 1 cannot tell," said he ; 
" But 'twas a famous victory." 

Robert Southdt. 



bictorioita iHen of CEartl). 

Victorious men of earth, no more 

Proclaim how wide your empires are : 
Though you bind in every shore. 
And your triumphs reach as far 
As night or day. 
Yet you proud monarchs must obey. 
And mingle with forgotten ashes, when 
Death calls ye to the crowd of common men. 



Devouring famine, plague, and war, 

Each able to undo mankind. 
Death's servile emissaries are ; 
Nor to these alone confined — 
He hath at will 
More quaint and subtle ways to kill : 
A smile or kiss, as he will use the art, 
Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart. 
James Shirlet. 



(Jlje ^rsenol at Springfieltr. 

This is the arsenal. Prom floor to ceiling, 
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms ; 

But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah! what a sound will rise— how wild and 
dreary — 

When the death-angel touches those swift keys ! 
What loud lament and dismal miserere 

Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus — 
The cries of agony, the endless groan. 

Which, through the ages that have gone before us, 
In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer ; 

Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's 
song; 
And loud, amid the universal clamor. 

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din ; 

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 
Beat the wild war-drums made of serpents' skin ; 

The tumult of each sacked and burning village ; 

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; 
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage ; 

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder. 
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade — 

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, 
The diapason of the cannonade. 



I 



SUNBISE COMES TO-MORROW. 651 


Is it, man, with such discordant noises. 


True, the rich despise the poor, 


With such accursed instruments as these. 


And the poor desire 


Thou drownest nature's sweet and kindly voices, 


Food still from the rich man's door, 


And jarrest the celestial harmonies ? 


Fuel from his fire : 


Were half the power that fills the world with 


True that, in this age of oiirs. 
There are none to guide us — 


terror, 
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and 


Gone the grand primeval powers ! 
Selfish aims divide us : 


courts. 


True the plaint ; but if more true, 


Given to redeem the human mind from error. 


I would not deplore it ; 


There were no need of arsenals nor forts ; 


If an Eden fade from view, 


The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ; 


Time may yet restore it. 


And every nation that should lift again 




Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 


Evil comes, and evil goes. 


Would wear f orevermore the curse of Cain ! 


But it moves me never ; 
For the good, the good, it grows. 


Down the dark future, through long generations. 


Buds and blossoms ever. 


The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ; 


Winter still succeeds to spring. 


And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations. 


But fresh springs are coming ; 


I hear once more the voice of Christ say. 


Other birds are on the wing. 


"Peace!" 


Other bees are humming. 




I have loved with right good-will, 


Peace ! — and no longer from its brazen portals 


Mourned my hopes departed, 


The blast of war's great organ shakes the 


Dreamed my golden dream — and still 


skies ; 


Am not broken-hearted. 


But, beautiful as songs of the immortals. 


Problems are there hard to solve. 


The holy melodies of love arise. 


And the weak may try them — 


Henbt Wadsworth Longpellow. 


May review them and revolve, 




While the strong pass by them. 




Sages prove that God is not ; 


Sunrise tomes QTo-ittorrotn. 


But I still adore him. 
See the shadow in each spot 


True it is that clouds and mist 

Blot the clear, blue weather ; 
True that lips that once have kissed 

Come no more together : 
True that when we would do good. 

Evil often follows ; 
True that green leaves quit the wood. 

Summers lose their swallows : 


That he casts before him. 
What if cherished creeds must fade ? 

Faith will never leave us ; 
God preserves what God has made, 

Nor can truth deceive us. 
Let in light — the holy light ! 

Brothers, fear it never ; 
Darkness smiles, and wrong grows right : 

Let in light forever ! 


True that we must live alone. 


Dwell with pale dejections ; 




True that we must often moan 


Let in light ! When this shall be 


Over crushed affections : 


Safe and pleasant duty. 


True that man his queen awaits — 


Men in common things shall see 


True that, sad and lonely. 


Goodness, truth, and beauty ; 


Woman, through her prison-gates, 


And as noble Plato sings — 


Sees her tyrant only : 


Hear it, lords and ladies ! — 



653 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



We shall love and praise the things 

That are down in Hades. 
Glad am I, and glad will be ; 

For my heart rejoices 
When sweet looks and lips I see, 

When I hear sweet voices. 
I will hope, and work, and love, 

Singing to the hours, 
While the stars are bright above, 

And below, the flowers ; 
Apple-blossoms on the trees, 

Gold-cups in the meadows. 
Branches waving in the breeze. 

On the grass their shadows ; 
Blackbirds whistling in the wood, 

Cuckoos shouting o'er us ; 
Clouds, with white or crimson hood. 

Pacing right before us. 
Who, in such a world as this, 

Could not heal his sorrow % 
Welcome this sweet sunset bliss — 

Sunrise comes to-morrow ! 

Anonymous. 



Say not, the struggle nought availeth, 
The labor and the wounds are vain. 

The enemy faints not, nor faileth. 
And as things have been they remain. 

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars ; 

It may be, in yon smoke concealed. 
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers. 

And, but for you, possess the field. 

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, . 

Seem here no painful inch to gain. 
Far back, through creeks and inlets making, 

Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 

And not by eastern windows only, * 

When daylight comes, comes in the light ; 

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly. 
But westward, look, the land is bright. 

ARTHtTR Hugh Clough. 



^\\t Bucket. 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my child- 
hood. 
When fond recollection presents them to view ! — 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild- 
wood. 
And every loved spot which my infancy knew ! 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood 
by it; 
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract 
feU; 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it ; 
And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the 
well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the 
well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure ; 
For often at noon, when returned from the 
field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure. 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glow- 
ing, 
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ! 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflow- 
ing, 
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the 
well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green, mossy brim to re- 
ceive it. 
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! 
Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to 
leave it. 
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved habitation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell. 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 
And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the 
well — 
Tlie old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well ! 
Samuel Woodworth. 



OW THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 



653 



®n tl)c Receipt of ntg iHotl)cr's |)icturc 

OUT OF NORFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN 
BODHAM. 

Oh that those lips had language ! Life has passed 
With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see. 
The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 
Voice only fails — else how distinct they say, 
" Grieve not, my child — chase all thy fears away ! " 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that can immortalize. 
The art that bafB.es time's tyrannic claim 
To quench it ! ) here shines on me still the same. 
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear ! 

welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
Who bidst me honor with an artless song, 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey — not willingly alone. 

But gladly, as the precept were her own ; 
And, while that face renews my filial grief, 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief — 
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
A momentary dream that thou art she. 

My mother ! when I learned that thou wast dead, 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son — 
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? 
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ; 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. 
I heard the bell toll on thy burial day ; 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away; 
And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
But was it such? — It was. — Where thou art gone 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown ; 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. 
The parting word shall pass my lips no more. 
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, 
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; 
What ardently I wished I long believed. 
And, disappointed still, was still deceived — 
By expectation every day beguiled. 
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent. 



I learned at last submission to my lot ; 
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no 

more — 
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; 
And where the gardener Eobin, day by day. 
Drew me to school along the public way — 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap — 
'Tis now become a history little known. 
That once we called the pastoral house our own. 
Short-lived possession ! but the record fair, 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced 
A thousand other themes, less deeply traced : 
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid ; 
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home — 
The biscuit, or confectionery plum ; 
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed 
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed ; 
All this, and, more endearing still than all. 
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall — 
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks 
That humor interposed too often makes ; 
All this, still legible in memory's page. 
And still to be so to my latest age. 
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honors to thee as my numbers may — 
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere — 
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. 
Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers — 
The violet, the pink, the jessamine — 
I pricked them into paper with a pin, 
(And thou wast happier than myself the while — 
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and 

smile) — 
Could those few pleasant days again appear, 
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them 

here f 
I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. 
But no — what here we call our life is such. 
So little to be loved, and thou so much. 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou — as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast, 
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed,) 



654 



POEMS OF SENTI3IENT AND REFLECTION. 



Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, 
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile, 
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below. 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay — 
So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore 
" Where tempests never beat nor billows roar ; " 
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
Of life long since has anchored by thy side. 
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 
Always from port withheld, always distressed — 
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, 
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost ; 
And day by day some current's thwarting force 
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
Yet oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he ! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; 
But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
The son of parents passed into the skies. 
And now, farewell ! — Time, unrevoked, has run 
His wonted course ; yet what I wished is done. 
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again — 
To have renewed the joys that once were mine. 
Without the sin of violating thine ; 
And, while the wings of fancy still are free. 
And I can view this mimic show of thee. 
Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 

William Coavper. 



OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. 

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po, 
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor 
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door. 
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
A weary waste expanding to the skies : 
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see. 
My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee ; 
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain. 
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 



Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend. 
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ! 
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
To pause from toil, and time their evening flre ! 
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair. 
And every stranger finds a ready chair ! 
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crowned. 
Where all the ruddy family around 
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, 
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
And learn the luxury of doing good ! 

But me, not destined such delights to share, 
My prime of life in wandering spent, and care ; 
Impelled, with steps unceasing, to pursue 
Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view. 
That like the circle bounding earth and skies. 
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; 
My future leads to traverse realms alone, 
And find no spot of all the world my own. 
E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
And, placed on high above the storm's career, 
Look downward where a hundred realms appear : 
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 

Wlien thus creation's charms around combine. 
Amidst the store should thankless pride repine °i 
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
That good which makes each humbler bosom 

vain ? 
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, 
These little things are great to little man ; 
And Aviser he whose sympathetic mind 
Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendor 

crowned ; 
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round ; 
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale ; 
For me your tributary stores combine. 
Creation's heir, the world — the world is mine ! 

As some lone miser visiting his store. 
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er, 
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill. 
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting stiU, 



THE TRAVELLER. 



655 



Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
Pleased with each good that heaven to man sup- 
plies ; 
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 
To see the sum of human bliss so small : 
And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find 
Some spot to real happiness consigned, 
Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at 

rest. 
May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 
But where to find that happiest spot below 
Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? 
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own, 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
And his long nights of revelry and ease ; 
The naked negro, planting at the line. 
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, 
And thanks his gods for all the goods they 

gave. 
Such is the patriot's boast where'er we roam. 
His first, best country, ever is at home. 
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare. 
And estimate the blessings which they share. 
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; 
As different good, by art or nature given, 
To different nations, makes their blessings even. 

Nature, a mother kind alike to all, 
Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call : 
With food as well the peasant is supplied 
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ; 
And though the rocky-crested summits frown, 
These rocks by custom turn to beds of down. 
Prom art more various are the blessings sent, — 
Wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content. 
Yet these each other's power so strong contest. 
That either seems destructive of the rest. 
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment 

fails. 
And honor sinks where commerce long prevails. 
Hence every state, to our loved blessing prone. 
Conforms and models life to that alone. 
Each to the favorite happiness attends. 
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends. 
Till, carried to excess in each domain. 
This favorite good begets peculiar pain. 



But let us try these truths with closer eyes. 
And trace them through the prospect as it lies ; 
Here, for a while, my proper cares resigned, 
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; 
Like yon neglected shrub at random cast. 
That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. 

Far to the right, where Apennine ascends, 
Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; 
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side. 
Woods over woods, in gay theatric pride. 
While oft some temple's mouldering tops between 
With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 

Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, 
The sons of Italy were surely blest : 
Whatever fruits in different climes are found. 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 
Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; 
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; 
These here disporting own the kindred soil, 
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand, 
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, 
And sensual bliss is all this nation knows. 
In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign : 
Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain ; 
Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ! 
And e'en in penance planning sins anew. 
All evils here contaminate the mind. 
That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
For wealth was theirs ; not far removed the 

date 
When commerce proudly flourished through the 

state. 
At her command the palace learned to rise, 
Again the long-fallen column sought the skies. 
The canvas glowed, beyond e'en nature warm. 
The pregnant quarry teemed with human form ; 
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale. 
Commerce on other shores displayed her sail ; 
While naught remained, of all that riches gave. 
But towns unmanned, and lords without a slave ; 



656 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, 
Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 

Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ; 
From these the feeble heart and long-fallen mind 
An easy compensation seem to find. 
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp arrayed, 
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade ; 
Processions formed for piety and love, 
A mistress or a saint in every grove. 
By sports like these are all their cares beguiled ; 
The sports of children satisfy the child : 
Each nobler aim, repressed by long control, 
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 
While low delights succeeding fast behind, 
In happier meanness occupy the mind. 
As in those domes where Ca?sars once bore 

sway. 
Defaced by time, and tottering in decay, 
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, 
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; 
And, wondering man could want the larger pile, 
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 

My soul, turn from them ! turn me to survey 
Where rougher climes a nobler race display, 
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, 
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread: 
No product here the barren hills afford 
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword ; 
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, 
But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; 
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, 
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 

Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm. 
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast though 

small, 
He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head. 
To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal 
To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil. 
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 
Cheerful at morn he wakes from short repose, 
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; 



With patient angle trolls the finny deep, 
Or drives his venturous ploughshare to the steep ; 
Or seeks the den where snow-traeks mark the way. 
And drags the struggling savage into day. 
At night returning, every labor sped, 
He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 
Smiles by a cheerful fire, and round surveys 
His children's looks that brighten to the blaze. 
While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard, 
Displays her cleanly platter on the board ; 
And haply too some pilgrim, thither led. 
With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 

Thus every good his native wilds impart, 
Imprints the patriot lesson on his heart ; 
And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise, 
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms. 
And dear that hill that lifts him to the storms ; 
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, 
So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 

Such are the charms to barren states assigned : 
Their wants but few, their wishes all confined ; 
Yet let them only share the praises due, — 
If few their wants, their pleasures are but few : 
For every want that stimulates the breast 
Becomes a source of pleasure when redressed. 
Hence from such lands each pleasing science flies, 
That first excites desii'e and then supplies ; 
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, 
To fill the languid pause with finer joy ! 
Unknown those powers that raise the soul to 

flame. 
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. 
Their level life is but a smouldering fire. 
Nor quenched by want, nor fanned by strong de- 
sire; 
Unfit for raptures, or if raptures cheer 
On some high festival of once a year, 
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 

But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow, — 
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low; 
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son 
Unaltered, unimproved the manners run ; 



THE TRAVELLER. 



657 



And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart 
Pall blunted from each indurated heart. 
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 
May sit like falcons cowering on the nest ; 
But all the gentler morals, — such as play 
Through life's more cultured walks, and charm 

the way, — 
These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly, 
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 

To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 
1 turn, and Prance displays her bright domain. 
Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease. 
Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can 

please. 
How often have I led thy sportive choir 
With tuneless pipe beside the murmuring Loire ! 
When shading elms along the margin grew. 
And, freshened from the wave, the zephyr flew ; 
And haply, though my harsh touch flattering still, 
But mocked all tune and marred the dancer's 

skill; 
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power. 
And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. 
Alike all ages : dames of ancient days 
Have led their children through the mirthful 

maze ; 
And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore. 
Has frisked beneath the burden of threescore. 

So blest a life these thoughtless realms display, 
Thus idly busy rolls their world away. 
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear. 
For honor forms the social temper here : 
Honor, that praise which real merit gains, 
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, 
Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand. 
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land ; 
Prom courts to camps, to cottages it strays, 
And all are taught an avarice of praise : 
They please, are pleased ; they give to get esteem ; 
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. 

But while this softer art their bliss supplies, 
It gives their follies also room to rise ; 
For praise too dearly loved or warmly sought 
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ; 
And the weak soul, within itself unblest, 
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
44 



Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art. 
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ; 
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace. 
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; 
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, 
To boast one splendid banquet once a year ; 
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, 
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 

To men of other minds my fancy flies, 
Embosomed in the deep where Holland lies. 
Methinks her patient sons before me stand. 
Where the broad ocean leans against the land, 
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide. 
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow. 
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow, 
Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar. 
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore ; 
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile. 
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; 
The slow canal, the yellow-blossomed vale. 
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, 
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
A new creation rescued from his reign. 

Thus while around the wave-subjected soil 
Impels the native to repeated toil. 
Industrious habits in each bosom reign. 
And industry begets a love of gain. 
Hence all the good from opulence that springs. 
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings. 
Are here displayed. Their much-loved wealth im- 
parts 
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; 
But view them closer, craft and fraud appear. 
E'en libei'ty itself is bartered here ; 
At gold's superior charms all freedom flies. 
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys. 
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves. 
Here wretches seek dishonorable graves. 
And, calmly bent, to servitude conform, 
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 

Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of 
old! 
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold. 
War in each breast and freedom on each brow ; 
How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! 



658 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, 
And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; 
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride. 
And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide. 
There all around the gentlest breezes stray, 
There gentler music melts on every spray ; 
Creation's mildest charms are there combined, 
Extremes are only in the master's mind. 

Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state. 
With daring aims irregularly great, 
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
I see the lords of human kind pass by : 
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, 
By forms unfashioned, fresh from nature's hand. 
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul. 
True to imagined right above control, — 
While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan. 
And learns to venerate himself as man. 

Thine, freedom, thine the blessings pictured 
here. 
Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear ! 
Too blest indeed were such without alloy ; 
But, fostered e'en by freedom, ills annoy ; 
That independence Britons prize too high 
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie ; 
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, 
All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown : 
Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held. 
Minds combat minds, repelling and repelled ; 
Ferments arise, imprisoned factions roar, 
Repressed ambition struggles round her shore. 
Till, overwrought, the general system feels 
Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 

Nor this the worst : as nature's ties decay. 
As duty, love, and honor fail to sway. 
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law. 
Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
Hence all obedience bows to these alone. 
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ; 
Till time may come when, stripped of all her 

charms, 
The land of scholars and the nurs& of arms, 
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, 
Where kings have toiled and poets wrote for fame, 
One sink of level avarice shall lie. 
And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonored die. 



But think not, thus when freedom's ills I state, 
I mean to flatter kings or court the great ; 
Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire, 
Far from my bosom drive the low desire ! 
And thou, fair freedom, taught alike to feel 
The rabble's rage and tyrant's angry steel ; 
Thou transitory flower, alike iindone 
By proud contempt or favor's fostering sun, — 
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure ! 
I only would repress them to secure. 
For just experience tells, in every soil. 
That those that think must govern those that 

toil ; 
And all that freedom's highest aims can reach 
Is but to lay proportioned loads on each. 
Hence, should one order disproportioned grow, 
Its double weight must ruin all below. 

Oh then how blind to all that truth requires. 
Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! 
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, 
Except when fast approaching danger warms ; 
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, 
Conti-acting regal power to stretch their own ; 
When I behold a factious band agree 
To call it freedom when themselves are free, 
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law. 
The wealth of climes where savage nations roam 
Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home — 
Fear, pity, justice, indignation, start, 
Tear off reserve and bare my swelling heart, 
Till, half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 

Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour 
When first ambition struck at regal power ; 
And thus, polluting honor in its source. 
Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 
Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore. 
Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore ? 
Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, 
Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste ? 
Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, 
Lead stern depopulation in her train, 
And over fields where scattered hamlets rose 
In barren, solitary pomp repose 1 
Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call. 
The smiling, oft-frequented village fall f 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 



659 



Beheld the duteous son, the sire decayed, 
The modest matron, and the blushing maid. 
Forced from their homes, a melancholy train, 
To traverse climes beyond the western main, 
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around. 
And Niagara stuns with thundering sound ? 

E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
Through tangled forests and through dangerous 

ways, 
Where beasts with man divided empire claim, 
And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim ; 
There, while above the giddy tempest flies. 
And all around distressful yells arise, 
The pensive exile, bending with his woe, 
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go. 
Casts a long look where England's glories shine, 
And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. 

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
That bliss which only centres in the mind ; 
Why have I strayed from pleasure and repose. 
To seek a good each government bestows ? 
In every government, though terrors reign. 
Though tjTant kings or tyrant laws restrain. 
How small, of all that human hearts endure, 
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ! 
Still to themselves in every place consigned. 
Our own felicity we make or find ; 
With secret course which no loud storms annoy 
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel. 
To men remote from power but rarely known, 
Leave reason, faith, and conscience all our own. 

Olivbb Goldsmith. 



Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain. 
Where health and plenty cheered the laboring 

swain. 
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed ! 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease — 
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please ! 
How often have I loitered o'er thy green. 
Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! 



How often have I paused on every charm — 

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm. 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 

The decent church that topt the neighboring hill. 

The hawthorn-bush, with seats beneath the shade — 

For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 

How often have I blest the coming day. 

When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play. 

And all the village train, from labor free. 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; 

While many a pastime circled in the shade. 

The young contending as the old surveyed ; 

And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground. 

And sleights of art and feats of strength went 

round ; 
And still as each repeated pleasures tired. 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired : 
The dancing pair, that simply sought renown 
By holding out, to tire each other down ; • 
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 
While secret laughter tittered round the place ; 
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love. 
The matron's glance that would those looks re- 
prove : 
These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like 

these. 
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence 

shed ; 
These were thy charms — but all these charms are 
fled. 

Sweet-smiling village, loveliest of the lawn ! 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms with- 
drawn ; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen. 
And desolation saddens all thy green ; 
One only master grasps the whole domain. 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; 
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way ; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
vVmidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies. 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. 
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Far, far away thy children leave the land. 



660 



P0E3IS OF SENTniENT AND REFLECTION. 



Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay ; 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade — 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
When every rood of ground maintained its man : 
For him light labor spread her wholesome store — 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more ; 
His best companions, innocence and health ; 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are altered : trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose ; 
And every want to luxury allied, 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
Those calm desires that asked but little room, 
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful 

scene, 
Lived in each look, and brightened all the 

green — 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour. 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds 
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew. 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train. 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care. 
In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown. 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close. 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose ; 
I still had hopes — for pride atten&s us still — 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned 

skill, 
Around my fire an evening group to draw. 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 



And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, 
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 

blest retirement ! friend to life's decline ! 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine ! 
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these. 
A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations 

try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep. 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
No surly porter stands in guilty state, 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end. 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; 
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, 
While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
His heaven commences ere the world be past. 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's 

close 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow. 
The mingling notes came softened from below : 
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, 
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. 
The playful children just let loose from school. 
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering 

wind. 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind. 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. 
And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of population fail ; 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale ; 
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread — 
But all the bloomy blush of life is fled. 
All but one widowed, solitary thing, 
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 
She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn. 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till mom — 
She only left of all the harmless train. 
The sad historian of the pensive plain. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 



6G1 



Near yonder copse, where once the garden 

smiled, 
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild. 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear. 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
Nor e'er had clianged, nor wished to change, his 

place ; 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power 
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize — 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain. 
The long-remembered beggar was his guest, 
Wliose beard, descending, swept liis aged breast ; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud. 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. 
Sate by his fire, and talked the night away — 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done. 
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were 

won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to 

glow. 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. 
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt at every call. 
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies. 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by tiu-ns dismayed. 
The reverend champion stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise. 
And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace. 
His looks adorned the venerable place ; 



Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway. 

And fools who came to scoff remained to pray. 

The service past, around the pious man, 

With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 

E'en childi-en followed, with endearing wile, 

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's 

smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest ; 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares dis- 
tressed ; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were 

given — 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm. 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are 

spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way. 
With blossomed furze unprofltably gay. 
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule. 
The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view — 
I knew him well, and every truant knew; 
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee. 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
Full well the busy whisper, circling round. 
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned ; 
Yet he was kind — or, if severe in aught. 
The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
The village all declared how much he knew ; 
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 
And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. 
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, 
For, e'en though vanquished, he could argue still ; 
While words of learned length and thundering 

sound 
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew. 
That one small head could carry all he knew. 
But past is all his fame ; the very spot. 
Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye. 



662 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts 

inspired, 
Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, 
Where village statesmen talked with looks pro- 
found. 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlor splendors of that festive place : 
The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door, 
The chest contrived a double debt to pay — 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day, 
The pictui'es placed for ornament and use. 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
The hearth, except when winter chilled the 

day, 
With aspen-boughs, and flowers and fennel gay ; 
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
Eanged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 

Vain, transitory splendor ! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear ; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm than all the gloss of art ; 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play. 
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined ; 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed — 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain. 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. 



Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay ! 
'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted 

ore. 
And shouting folly hails them from her shore ; 
Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, abound, 
And rich men flock from all the world around. 
Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a name, 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loss : the man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied — 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds — 
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds ; 
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 
Has robbed the neighboring fields of half their 

growth ; 
His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
Around the world each needful product flies. 
For all the luxuries the world supplies; 
While thus the land, adorned for pleasure all 
In barren splendor, feebly waits the fall. 

As some fair female, unadorned and plain. 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, 
Slights every borrowed charm that dress sup- 
plies, 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
But when those charms are past — for charms are 

frail — 
When time advances, and when lovers fail, 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
In all the glaring impotence of dress : 
Thus fares the land, by luxury betrayed, 
In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed ; 
But, verging to decline, its splendors rise, 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
While, scourged by famine from the smiling 

land. 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 
The country blooms — a garden and a grave. 

Where then, ah ! where shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride 1 
If, to some common's fenceless limits strayed, 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 



663 



Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
And even the bare-worn common is denied. 
If to the city sped, what waits him there ? 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted from his fellow-creatures' woe. 
Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 
Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps dis- 
play. 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight 

reign. 
Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train ; 
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square — 
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
Are these thy serious thoughts ? Ah ! turn thine 

eyes 
Where the poor, houseless, shivering female lies : 
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, 
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; 
Now lost to all — her friends, her virtue iied — 
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head : 
And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the 

shower. 
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour 
When, idly first, ambitious of the town. 
She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn — thine the loveliest 
train — 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread. 

Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
Where half the convex world intrudes between. 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they 

go, 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
Far different there, from all that charmed be- 
fore. 
The various terrors of that horrid shore : 



Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 

And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 

Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 

But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 

Those pois'nous fields, with rank luxuriance 

crowned. 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
And savage men more murderous still than 

they; 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
Far different these from every former scene — 
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green. 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 

Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that parting 

day 
That called them from their native walks away ; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past. 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their 

last. 
And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
And, shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
Returned and wept, and still returned to weep ! 
The good old sire the first prepared to go 
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe ; 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. 
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears. 
The fond companion of his helpless years, 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
And left a lover's for her father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. 
And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose ; 
And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a 

tear. 
And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 

luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, 
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy. 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 



664 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 






Boast of a florid vigor not their own. 


a;i)e Sells of 0l)anbon. 




At every draught more large and large they 


Sabbata pango; 




grow. 


Funeraplcmgo ; 




A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 


Solemnia clango. 




Till sapped their strength, and every part un- 


Inscription on an old 


BELL. 


sound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 


With deep affection 
And recollection 




Even now the devastation is begun, 


I often think of 




And half the business of destruction done ; 


Those Shandon bells. 




Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand. 


Whose sounds so wild would. 




I see the rural virtues leave the land. 


In the days of childhood, 




Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the 


Fling round my cradle 




sail 


Their inagic spells. 




That, idly waiting, flaps with every gale — 


On this I ponder 




Downward they move, a melancholy band. 


Where'er I wander. 




Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 


And thus grow fonder. 
Sweet Cork, of thee — 




Contented toil, and hospitable care, 




And kind connubial tenderness are there ; 


With thy bells of Shandon, 




And piety with wishes placed above, 


That sound so grand on 




And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 


The pleasant waters 




And thou, sweet poetry, thou loveliest maid. 


Of the river Lee. 




Still first to fly where sensual joys invade — 






Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame. 


I've heard bells chiming 




To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ! 


Full many a clime in. 




Dear, charming nymph, neglected and decried. 


Tolling sublime in 




My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ! 


Cathedral shrine. 




Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe — 


While at a glibe rate 




That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me 


Brass tongues would vibrate ; 




so! 


But all their music 




Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel ! 


Spoke naught like thine. 




Thou nurse of every virtue — fare thee well ! 


For memory, dwelling 




Farewell ! — and oh ! where'er thy voice be tried, 


On each proud swelling 




On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarea's side — 


Of thy belfry, knelling 




Whether where equinoctial fervors glow. 


Its bold notes free. 




Or winter wraps the polar world in snow — 


Made the bells of Shandon 




Still let thy voice, prevailing over time. 


Sound far more grand on 




Kedress the rigors of th' inclement clime ; 


The pleasant waters 




Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 


I: 

Of the river Lee. 




Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 






Teach him that states, of native strength pos- 


I've heard bells tolling 




sest. 


Old Adrian's Mole in, 




Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 


Their thunder rolling 




That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay. 


From the Vatican — 




As ocean sweeps the labored mole away ; 


And cymbals glorious 




While self-dependent power can time defy, 


Swinging uproarious 




As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 


In the gorgeous turrets 




Oliver Goldsmith. 


Of Notre Dame ; 





TEE BELLS. 



665 



But thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly. 
Oh ! the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

There 's a bell in Moscow ; 
While on tower and kiosk oh 
In Saint Sophia 

The Turkman gets, 
And loud in air 
Calls men to prayer, 
From the tapering summit 

Of tall minarets. 

Such empty phantom 
I freely grant them ; 
But there 's an anthem 

More dear to me — 
'Tis the bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

Father Pkout. (Francis Mahony.) 



@;i)e Beiis. 



Hear the sledges with the bells — 
Silver bells — 
What a world of merriment their melody fore- 
tells! 

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 

In the icy air of night ! 
While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 

With a crystalline delight — 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 



II. 
Hear the mellow wedding bells — 
Golden bells ! 
What a world of happiness their harmony fore- 
tells! 

Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight ! 
From the molten-golden notes, 

And all in tune. 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
On the moon ! 
Oh, from out the sounding cells. 
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 
How it swells ! 
How it dwells 
On the Future ! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, bells, bells. 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells I 



Hear the loud alarum bells — 
Brazen bells ! 
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright ! 
Too much horrified to speak. 
They can only shriek, shriek. 
Out of tune. 
In the clamorous appealing to the mercy of the 

fire. 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic 
fire 

Leaping higher, higher, higher. 
With a desperate desire, 
And a resolute endeavor, 
Now — now to sit or never. 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells. 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of despair ! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 



666 POmiS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Yet the ear it fully knows, 


To the throbbing of the bells — 


By the twanging, 


Of the bells, bells, bells— , 


And the clanging, 


To the sobbing of the bells ; 


How the danger ebbs and flows ; 


Keeping time, time, time. 


Yet the ear distinctly tells. 


As he knells, knells, knells. 


In the jangling. 


In a happy Runic rhyme, 


And the wrangling, 


To the rolling of the bells — 


How the danger sinks and swells, 


Of the bells, bells, bells — 


By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the 


To the tolling of the bells, 


bells — 


Of the bells, bells, bells, bells- 


Of the bells — 


Bells, bells, bells — 


Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 


To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 


Bells, bells, bells — 




In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 


Edgar AiiAit Poe. 


IT. 

Hear the tolling of the bells — 
Iron bells ! 


^Ic^anber's iTeast; or, tl)c |)otDer of 


What a world of solemn thought their monody 


iHusic. 


compels ! 


AN ODE IN HONOR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY. 


In the silence of the night, 




How we shiver with affright 


'TwAS at the royal feast for Persia won 


At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 


By Philip's warlike son : 


For every sound that floats 


Aloft, in awful state. 


Prom the rust within their throats 


The godlike hero sate 


Is a groan. 


On his imperial throne ; 


And the people — ah, the people — 


His valiant peers were placed around, 


They that dwell up in the steeple. 


Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound ; 


All alone. 


(So should desert in arms be crowned) ; 


And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 


The lovely Thais by his side 


In that mufiled monotone, 


Sate, like a blooming eastern bride. 


Feel a glory in so rolling 


In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 


On the human heart a stone — 


Happy, happy, happy pair ! 


They are neither man nor woman — 


None but the brave, 


They are neither brute nor human — 


None but the brave, 


They are ghouls : 


None but the brave deserves the fair. 


And their king it is who tolls ; 




And he rolls, rolls, rolls. 


CHORUS. 


Rolls, 
A psean from the bells ! 
And his merry bosom swells 


Happy, happy, happy pair ! 


None hut the brave. 


With the pcean of the bells ! 
And he dances and he yells ; 


None hut the hrave. 
None hut the brave deserves the fair. 


Keeping time, time, time, 




In a sort of Runic rhyme, 


Timotheus, placed on high 


To the psean of the bells — • 


Amid the tuneful quire. 


Of the bells : 


With flying fingers touched the lyre ; 


Keeping time, time, time, 


The trembling notes ascend the sky, 


In a sort of Runic rhyme. 


And heavenly joj's inspire. 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 667 


The song began from Jove, 


Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain ; 


Who left his blissful seats above, 


Fought all his battles o'er again ; 


(Such is the power of mighty Love). 


And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he 


A dragon's fiery form belied the god ; 


slew the slain. 


Sublime on radiant spires he rode, 


The master saw the madness rise — 


When he to fair Olympia pressed, 


His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 


And while he sought her snowy breast; 


And, while he heaven and earth defied, 


Then, round her slender waist he curled. 


Changed his hand, and checked liis pride. 


And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of 


He chose a mournful muse, 


the world. 


Soft pity to infuse, 


The listening crowd admire the lofty sound — 


He sung Darius great and good, 


A present deity ! they shout around ; 


By too severe a fate 


A present deity ! the vaulted roofs rebound. 


Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen — 


With ravished ears 


Fallen from his high estate. 


The monarch hears. 


And weltering in his blood ; 


Assumes the god. 


Deserted, at his utmost need. 


AfEects to nod. 


By those his former bounty fed ; 


And seems to shake the spheres. 


On the bare earth exposed he lies, 




With not a friend to close his eyes. 


CHORUS. 


With downcast looks the joyless victor sate. 


Witli ravished ears 


Revolving in his altered soul 


The monarch hears, 


The various turns of chance below ; 


Assumes the god, 


And, now and then, a sigh he stole ; 


Affects to nod, 


And tears began to flow. 


And seems to shake the spheres. 






CHORUS. 


The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician 

sung — 
Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young ; 

The jolly god in triumph comes : 


Revolving in his altered soul 


The various turns of chance heloic ; 
And, noiv and then, a sigh he stole; 


Sound the trumpets ; beat the drums ! 


And tears began to flow. 


Flushed with a purple grace. 




He shows his honest face ; 


The mighty master smiled, to see 


Now give the hautboys breath — he comes, he 


That love was in the next degree ; 


comes ! 


'Twas but a kindred sound to move, 


Bacchus, ever fair and young, 


For pity melts the mind to love. 


Drinking joys did first ordain ; 


Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, 


Bacchus' blessings are a treasure ; 


Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 


Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : 


War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; 


Rich the treasure. 


Honor but an empty bubble — 


Sweet the pleasure ; 


Never ending, still beginning — 


Sweet is pleasure after pain. 


Fighting still, and still destroying ; 




If the world be worth thy winning. 


CHORUS. 


Think, oh think it worth enjoying I 


Bacchus' blessings are a treasure ; 


Lovely Thais sits beside thee — 


Drinking is the soldier' s pleasure : 


Take the goods the gods provide thee. 


Rich the treasure, 


The many rend the sky with loud applause ; 


Sweet the pleasure ; 


So love was crowned, but music won the 


Sweet is pleasure after pain. 


cause. 



- 
668 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 


CHORUS. 


Gazed on the fair 


And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; 


Who caused his care, 


Thais led the way 


And sighed and looked, sighed and looked. 


To light him to his prey. 


Sighed and looked, and sighed again. 
At length, with love and wine at once op- 


And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 


pressed. 


Thus, long ago — 


The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 


Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, 




While organs yet were mute — 


CHOEUS. 


Timotheus, to his breathing flute, 


Tlie prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care, 
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again. 
At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 


And sounding lyre, 
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 

At last divine Cecilia came, 

Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 

Enlarged the former narrow boimds. 

And added length to solemn sounds. 
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown be- 
fore. 

Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 


Now strike the golden lyre again — 


A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ! 


Or both divide the crown ; 


Break his bands of sleep asunder. 


He raised a mortal to the skies, 


And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. 


She drew an angel down. 


Hark, hark ! the horrid sound 




Has i-aised up his head ! 


GRAND CHORUS. 


As awaked from the dead, 


At last divine Cecilia came. 


And amazed, he stares around. 


Inventress of the vocal frame ; 


Revenge ! revenge ! Timotheus cries ; 


Tlie sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 


See the Furies arise ! 


Enlarged the former narrow bounds. 


See the snakes that they rear. 


And added length to solemn sounds. 


How they hiss in their hair. 


With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 


And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! 


Let old Timothexis yield the prize. 


Behold a ghastly band. 


Or both divide the crown ; 


Each a torch in his hand ! 


He raised a mortal to the skies, 


Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were 


She drew an angel down. 


slain. 


John Drtden, 


And unburied remain. 




Inglorious, on the plain ! 




Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew. 


Qi;i)ose QEtJcning JBcU©. 


Behold how they toss their torches on high, 


Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! 


How they point to the Persian abodes, 


How many a tale their music tells. 


And glittering temples of their hostile gods ! 


Of youth, and home, and that sweet time 


The princes applaud with a furious joy. 

And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to 


When last I heard their soothing chime I 


destroy ; * 


Those joyous hours are passed away ; 


Thais led the way 


And many a heart that then was gay. 


To light him to his prey. 


Within the tomb now darkly dwells. 


And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 


And hears no more those evening bells. 



THE MYSTIC TRUMPETER. 



669 



And so 'twill be when I am gone — 
That tuneful peal will still ring on ; 
While other bards shall walk these dells, 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. 

Thomas Mooke. 



Jfnflncncc of iHusic. 

Orpheus, with his lute, made trees, 
And the mountain-tops that freeze. 

Bow themselves when he did sing ; 
To his music plants and flowers 
Ever sprung, as sun and showers 

There had made a lasting Spring. 

Every thing that heard him play, 
Even the billows of the sea, 

Hung their heads, and then lay by. 
In sweet music is such art, 
KUling care, and grief of heart — 

Fall asleep, or, hearing, die ! 

William Shakespeare. 



iltusic. 

When whispering strains with creeping wind 

Distil soft passions through the heart ; 
And when at every touch we find ' 
Our pulses beat and bear a part ; 
When threads can make 
A heartstring ache. 
Philosophy 
Can scarce deny 
Our souls are made of harmony. 

When unto heavenly joys we faine 
Whate'er the soul affecteth most, 
WJiich only thus we can explain 
By music of the heavenly host, 
Whose lays, we think, 
Make stars to wink ; 
Philosophy 
Can scarce deny 
Our souls consist of harmony. 

Oh, lull me, lull me, charming air ! 

My senses rock with wonder sweet ! 
Like snow on wool thy fallings are ; 

Soft like a spirit's are thy feet ! 



Grief who needs fear 
That hath an ear ? 
Down let him lie, 
And slumbering die, 
And change his soul for harmony. 

William Steode. 



Slie iUgstic (trumpeter. 

Hark ! some wild trumpeter, some strange musi- 
cian. 

Hovering unseen in air, vibrates capricious tunes 
to-night. 

I hear thee, trumpeter ; listening, alert, I catch 

thy notes : 
Now pouring, whirling like a tempest round me, 
Now low, subdued, now in the distance lost. 

Come nearer, bodiless one ; haply, in thee resounds 
Some dead composer, haply thy pensive life 
Was filled with aspirations high, unformed ideals. 
Waves, oceans miisical, chastically surging. 
That now, ecstatic ghost, close to me bending, thy 

cornet echoing, pealing, 
Gives out to no one's ears but mine, but freely 

gives to mine. 
That I may thee translate. 

Blow, trumpeter, free and clear ; I follow thee. 

While at thy liquid prelude, glad, serene. 

The fretting world, the streets, the noisy hours of 

day, withdraw ; 
A holy calm descends, like dew, upon me, 
I walk in cool refreshing night, the walks of Para- 
dise, 
I scent the grass, the moist air, and the roses ; 
Thy song expands my numbed, imbonded spirit ; 

thou freest, launchest me. 
Floating and basking upon heaven's lake. 

Blow again, trumpeter ! and, for my sensuous eyes. 
Bring the old pageants, show the feudal world. 

What charm thy music works ! thou makest pass 

before me 
Ladies and cavaliers long dead ; barons are in their 

castle halls ; the troubadours are singing; 



670 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Armed knights go forth to redress wrongs, some in 

quest of the Holy Graal : 
I see the tournament, I see the contestants, encased 

in heavy armor, seated on stately, champing 

horses ; 
I hear the shouts, the sounds of blows and smiting 

steel : 
I see the crusaders' tumultuous armies. Hark! 

how the cymbals clang ! 
Lo ! where the monks walk in advance, bearing the 

cross on high ! 

Blow again, trumpeter ! and for thy theme 

Take now the enclosing theme of all, the solvent 
and the setting ; 

Love, that is pulse of all, the sustenance and the 
pang; 

The heart of man and woman all for love ; 

No other theme but love, knitting, enclosing, all- 
diffusing love ! 

Oh, how the immortal phantoms crowd around 
me ! 

I see the vast alembic ever working, I see and 
know the flames that heat the world ;. 

The glow, the blush, the beating hearts of lov- 
ers. 

So blissful happy some, and some so silent, dark, 
and nigh to death ; 

Love, that is all the earth to lovers ; Love that 
mocks time and space ; 

Love, that is day and night ; Love, that is sun and 
moon and stars ; 

Love, that is crimson, sumptuous, sick with per- 
fume; 

No other words, but words of love; no other 
thought but Love. 

Blow again, trumpeter ! conjure war's wild alar- 
ums. 

Swift to thy spell, a shuddering hum like distant 
thunder rolls ; 

Lo ! where the armed men hasten. Lo ! mid the 
clouds of dust, the glint of bayonets ; 

I see the grime-faced cannoniers ; I mark the rosy 
flash amid the smoke ; I hear the 'cracking of 
the guns : 

Not war alone : thy fearful music-song, wild player, 
brings every sight of fear, 



The deeds of ruthless brigands, rapine, murder ; I 

hear the cries for help ! 
I see ships foundering at sea ; I behold on deck, 

and below deck, the terrible tableaux. 

trumpeter ! methinks I am myself the instru- 

ment thou playest ! 
Thou melt'st my heart, my brain ; thou movest, 

■ drawest, changest them, at will : 
And now thy sullen notes send darknessthrough me; 
Thou takest away all cheering light, all hope : 

1 see the enslaved, the overthrown, the hurt, the 

opprest of the whole earth ; 

I feel the measureless shame and humiliation of my 
race, it becomes all mine ; 

Mine too the revenges of humanity, the wrongs of 
ages, baffled feuds and hatreds ; 

Utter defeat upon me weighs : all lost ! the foe vic- 
torious ! 

Yet 'mid the ruins Pride colossal stands, unshaken 
to the last ; 

Endurance, resolution, to the last. . 

Now, trumpeter, for thy close. 

Vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet ; 

Sing to my soul, renew its languishing faith and 

hope : 
Rouse uj] my slow belief, give me some vision of 

the future ; 
Give me, for once, its prophecy and joy. 

glad, exulting, culminating song I 

A vigor more than earth's is in thy notes ! 

Marches of victory, man disenthralled, the con- 
queror at last ! 

Hymns to the universal God, from universal Man, 
all joy ! 

A re-born race appears, a perfect world, all joy ! 

Women and men in wisdom, innocence, and health, 
all joy ! 

Hiotous, laughing Bacchanals, filled with joy ! 

War, sorrow, suffering gone; the rank earth 
purged : nothing but joy left ! 

The ocean filled with joy, the atmosphere all joy ! 

Joy! joy! in freedom, worship, Jove! Joy in the 
ecstasy of life ! 

Enough to merely be ! Enough to breathe I 

Joy ! joy ! all over joy ! Walt Whitmak. 



THE PASSIONS. 



671 



9ri)e passions. 

AN ODE FOR MUSIC. 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung, 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell. 
Thronged around her magic cell — 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting — 
Possest beyond the muse's painting ; 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined ; 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired. 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatched her instruments of sound ; 
And, as they oft had heard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forcefid art. 
Each (for madness ruled the hour) 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

First Fear his hand, its skill to try. 

Amid the chords bewildered laid. 
And back recoiled, he knew not why, 

E'en at the sound himself had made. 

Next Anger rushed ; his eyes, on fire. 
In lightnings owned his secret stihgs : 

In one rude clash he struck the lyre. 

And swept with hurried hand the strings. 

With woeful measures wan Despair, 
Low, sullen sounds, his grief beguiled — 

A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 

But thou, Hope, with eyes so fair — 

What was thy delightful measure ? 

Still it whispered promised pleasure. 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 

Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale. 

She called on Echo still, through all the song ; 
And, where her sweetest theme she chose, 
A soft responsive voice was heard at every 

close ; 
And Hope enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden 
hair. 



And longer had she sung — but, with a frown. 

Revenge impatient rose ; 
He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder 
down; 
And, with a withering look, 
The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast so loud and dread. 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ! 
And, ever and anon, he beat 
The doubling drum, with furious heat ; 
And though sometimes, each dreary pause be- 
tween. 
Dejected Pity, at his side, 
Her soul-subduing voice applied. 
Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien. 
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting 
from his head. 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed — 

Sad proof of thy distressful state ; 
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed ; 

And now it courted Love — now, raving, called 
on Hate. 

With eyes upraised, as one inspired. 
Pale Melancholy sate retired ; 
And, from her wild sequestered seat, 
In notes by distance made more sweet. 
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive 
soul ; 
And, dashing soft from rocks around. 
Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; 
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure 
stole ; 
Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, 
Round an holy calm diffusing. 
Love of peace, and lonely musing, 
In hollow murmurs died away. 

But oh ! how altered was its sprightlier tone 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest 
hue. 
Her bow across her shoulder flung, 

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew. 
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket 
rung — 
The hunter's call, to faun and dryad known ! 
The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed 
queen. 



672 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen, 
Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear ; 

And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen 
spear. 

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : 

He, with viny crown advancing. 
First to the lively pipe his hand addrest ; 
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, 
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the 
best; 
They would have thought, who heard the strain. 
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, 
Amidst the festal sounding shades. 

To some unwearied minstrel dancing. 
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, 
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round : 
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ; 
And he, amidst his frolic play. 
As if he would the charming air repay. 
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. 

Music ! sphere-descended maid. 
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid ! 
Why, goddess ! why, to us denied, 
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ? 
As, in that loved Athenian bower. 
You learned an all-commanding power, 
Thy mimic soul, nymph endeared, 
Can well recall what then it heard ; 
Where is thy native simple heart. 
Devote to virtue, fancy, art ? 
Arise, as in that elder time. 
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime ! 
Thy wonders, in that godlike age, 
Fill thy recording sister's page ; 
'Tis said — and I believe the tale — 
Thy humblest reed could more prevail, 
Had more of strength, diviner rage. 
Than all which charms this laggard age — ■ 
E'en all at once together found — 
Cecilia's mingled world of sound. 
Oh bid our vain endeavors cease ; 
Revive the just designs of Greece ! 
Return in all thy simple state — ' 
Confirm the tales her sons relate ! 

William Colliks. 



®o Qlonstantia — Singing. 

Thus to be lost, and thus to sink and die, 
Perchance were death indeed! Constantia, 
turn! 
In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie, 
Even though the sounds which were thy voice, 
which burn 
Between thy lips, are laid to sleep ; 
Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odor it 
is yet. 
And from thy touch like fire doth leap. 
Even while I write, my burning cheeks are 

wet — 
Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not for- 
get ! 

A breathless awe like the swift change. 
Unseen but felt, in youthful slumbers. 

Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange, 
Thou breathest now in fast ascending num- 
bers. 

The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven 
By the enchantment of thy strain ; 

And on my shoulders wings are woven, 
To follow its sublime career 

Beyond the mighty moons that wane 
Upon the verge of nature's utmost sphere. 
Till the world's shadowy walls are past and dis- 
appear. 

Her voice is hovering o'er my soul — it lingers, 
O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling wings ; 

The blood and life within those snowy fingers 
Teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings. 

My brain is wild, my breath comes quick — 
The blood is listening in my frame ; 

And thronging shadows, fast and thick, 
Pall on my overflowing eyes ; 

My heart is quivering like a flame; 
As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies, 
I am dissolved in these consuming ecstasies. 

I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee ; 

Whilst, like the world -surrounding air, thy 
song 
Flows on, and fills all things with melody. 

Now is thy voice a tempest, swift and strong. 



I 



ON A LADY SINGING. 



673 



On which, like one in trance upborne, 

Secure o'er rocks and waves I sweep, 
Eejoicing like a cloud of morn. 

Now 'tis the breath of summer night, 
Which, when the starry waters sleep, 

Round western isles, with incense-blossoms 
bright, 

Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous 

flight. 

Perct Btsshe Shellet. 



®n a fi-aiig Singing. 

Oft as my lady sang for me 
That song of the lost one that sleeps by the sea. 
Of the grave on the rock, and the cypress-tree. 
Strange was the pleasure that over me stole. 
For 'twas made of old sadness that lives in my 
soul. 

So still grew my heart at each tender word 
That the pulse in my bosom scarcely stirred, 
And I hardly breathed, but only heard. 
Where was I? — not in the world of men, 
Until she awoke me with silence again. 

Like the smell of the vine, when its early bloom 
Sprinkles the green lane with sunny perfume, 
Such a delicate fragrance filled the room. 
'Wliether it came from the vine without. 
Or arose from her presence, I dwell in doubt. 

Light shadows played on the pictured wall 
From the maples that fluttered outside the 

hall. 
And hindered the daylight — yet ah ! not all ; 
Too little for that aU the forest woiild be — 
Such a sunbeam she was, and is, to me ! 

When my sense returned, as the song was 

o'er, 
I fain would have said to her, " Sing it once 

more ; " 
But soon as she smiled my wish I forbore : 
Music enough in her look I found. 
And the hush of her lip seemed sweet as the 
sound. 

Thomas WrLLiAM Paesons. 

45 



% QTanabian Boot-Song. 

Et remigem cantus hortatur. — QuiNirLiAN. 

Faintly as tolls the evening chime, 
Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time. 
Soon as the woods on shore look dim. 
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. 
Eow, brothers, row ! the stream runs fast. 
The rapids are near, and the daylight 's past ! 



Why should we yet our sail unfurl ? — 
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl. 
But when the wind blows off the shore, 
Oh ! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. 
Blow, breezes, blow ! the stream runs fast. 
The rapids are near, and the daylight 's past ! 

Utawa's tide ! this trembling moon 
Shall see us float over thy surges soon. 
Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers — 
Oh ! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs ! 
Blow, breezes, blow ! the stream runs fast. 
The rapids are near, and the daylight 's past ! 

Thomas Mooke. 



to 



Oman s Uoicc. 



" Her voice was ever low, 
Gentle and soft — an excellent thing in woman." 

King Lear. 

iSToT in the swaying of the summer trees. 
When evening breezes sing their vesper hymn — 

Not in the minstrel's mighty symphonies. 
Nor ripples breaking on the river's brim. 

Is earth's best music ; these may move awhile 

High thoughts in happy hearts, and carking cares 
beguile. 

But even as the swallow's silken wings. 
Skimming the water of the sleeping lake. 

Stir the still silver with a hundred rings — 
So doth one sound the sleeping spirit wake 

To brave the danger, and to bear the harm — 

A low and gentle voice — dear woman's chief est 
charm. 



674 



POJEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



An excellent thing it is, and ever lent 

To truth and love, and meekness ; they who own 
This gift, by the all-gracious Giver sent, 

Ever by quiet step and smile are known ; 
By kind eyes that have wept, hearts that have sor- 
rowed — 
By patience never tired, from their own trials bor- 
rowed. 

An excellent thing it is, when first in gladness 
A mother looks into her infant's eyes. 

Smiles to its smiles, and saddens to its sadness. 
Pales at its paleness, sorrows at its cries ; 

Its food and sleep, and smiles and little joys — 

All these come ever blent with one low gentle 
voice. 

An excellent thing it is when life is leaving. 

Leaving with gloom and gladness, joys and cares, 
The strong heart failing, and the high soul griev- 
ing 
With strangest thoughts, and with unwonted 
fears ; 
Then, then a woman's low soft sympathy 
Comes like an angel's voice to teach us how to die. 

But a most excellent thing it is in youth, 

When the fond lover hears the loved one's tone, 
That fears, but longs, to syllable the truth — 

How their two hearts are one, and she his own ; 
It makes sweet human music — oh ! the spells 
That haunt the trembling tale a bright-eyed maiden 
teUs! 

Edwin Arnold. 



Sing again the song you sung 
When we were together young — " 
When there were but you and I 
Underneath the summer sky. 

Sing the song, and o'er and o'er, 
Though I know that nevermore 
Will it seem the song you sung 
When we were together young. 

George William Curtis. 



Song. 

Still to be neat, still to be drest, 

As you were going to a feast ; 

Still to be powdered, still perfumed — 

Lady, it is to be presumed, 

Though art's hid causes are not found, 

All is not sweet, all is not sound. 

Give me a look, give me a face, 
That makes simplicity a grace ; 
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free — 
Such sweet neglect more taketh me 
Than all the adulteries of art ; 
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 

Ben Jonson. 



UDeligfjt in SDisorir^r. 

A SWEET disorder in the dress 
Kindles in clothes a wantonness : 
A lawn about the shoulders thrown 
Into a fine distraction — 
An erring lace, which here and there 
Enthralls the crimson stomacher — 
A cuif neglected, and thereby 
Ribbons to flow confusedly — 
A winning wave, deserving note, 
In the tempestuous petticoat — 
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie 
I see a wild civility — 
Do more bewitch me than when art 
Is too precise in every part. 

KOEEHT HeRRICK, 



I SAW the twinkle of white feet, 
I saw the flash of robes descending ; 

Before her ran an influence fleet. 
That bowed my heart like barley bending 

As, in bare fields, the searching bees 
Pilot to blooms beyond our finding, 

It led me on — by sweet degrees, 
Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding. 



WHO IS SYLVIA? 



675 



Those graces were that seemed grim fates ; 

With nearer love the sky leaned o'er me ; 
The long-sought secret's golden gates 

On musical hinges swung before me. 

I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp 
Thrilling with god hood ; like a lover, 

I sprang the proffered life to clasp — 
The beaker fell ; the luck was over. 

The earth has drunk the vintage up ; 

What boots it patch the goblet's splinters f 
Can summer fill the icy cup 

Whose treacherous crystal is but winter's ? 

spendthrift haste ! await the gods ; 

Their nectar crowns the lips of patience. 
Haste scatters on unthankful sods 

The immortal gift in vain libations. 

Coy Hebe flies from those that woo, 

And shuns the hands would seize upon her : 

Follow thy life, and she will sue 
To pour for thee the cup of honor. 

James Eussbll Lowell. 



tOlio is Sglma? 

Who is Sylvia? what is she, 

That all the swains commend her ? 

Holy, fair, and wise, is she ; 

The heavens such grace did lend her 

That she might adored be. 



Is she kind, or is she fair? 

For beauty lives with kindness. 
Love does to her eyes repair 

To help him of his blindness — 
And, being helped, inhabits there. 

Then to Sylvia let us sing 

That Sylvia is excelling; 
She excels each mortal thing 

Upon the dull earth dwelling ; 
To her let us garlands bring. 

William Shakespeare. 



0onnct. 

'Tis much immortal beauty to admire. 

But more immortal beauty to withstand ; 
The perfect soul can overcome desire, 

If beauty with divine delight be scanned. 
For what is beauty, but the blooming chUd 

Of fair Olympus, that in night must end. 
And be for ever from that bliss exiled. 

If admiration stand too much its friend ? 
The wind may be enamored of a flower. 

The ocean of the green and laughing shore. 
The silver lightning of a lofty tower — 

But must not with too near a love adore ; 
Or flower, and margin, and cloud-capped tower, 
Love and delight shall with delight devour ! 

Lord Thurlow. 



Song. 

Lady, leave thy silken thread 

And flowery tapestry — 
There 's living roses on the bush. 

And blossoms on the tree. 
Stooj) where thou wilt, thy careless hand 

Some random bud will meet ; 
Thou canst not tread but thou wilt flnd 

The daisy at thy feet. 

'Tis like the birthday of the world, 

When earth was born in bloom ; 
Tlie light is made of many dyes. 

The air is all perfume ; 
There 's crimson buds, and white and blue — 

The very rainbow showers 
Have turned to blossoms where they fell. 

And sown the earth with flowers. 

There 's fairy tulips in the east — 

The garden of the sun ; 
The very streams reflect the hues. 

And blossom as they run ; 
While morn opes like a crimson rose, 

Still wet with pearly showers : 
Then, lady, leave the silken thread 

Thou twinest into flowers ! 

Thomas Hood. 



676 POEMS OF SENTIIIENT AND REFLECTION. 


6l)c toalka in IBeauts. 


®:i)c Solitara Ecopcr. 


She walks in beauty like the night 


Behold her, single in the field, 


Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 


Yon solitary Highland lass ! 


And aU that 's best of dark and bright 


Reaping and singing by herself ; 


Meets in her aspect and her eyes : 


Stop here, or gently pass ! 


Thus mellowed to that tender light 


Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 


Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 


And sings a melancholy strain ; 




Oh listen ! for the vale profound 


One shade the more, one ray the less, 


Is overflowing with the sound. 


Had half impaired the nameless grace 




Which waves in every raven tress, 


No nightingale did ever chant 


Or softly lightens o'er her face — 


More welcome notes to weary bands 


Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear, their dwelling-place. 


Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
Among Arabian sands ; 




A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 




In spring time from the cuckoo bh-d. 


And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 


Breaking the sUenee of the seas 


So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 


Among the farthest Hebrides. 


The .smiles that win, the tints that glow, 




"But tell of days in goodness spent, 


Will no one tell me what she sings ? 


A mind at peace with all below, 


Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 


A heart whose love is innocent. 


For old, unhappy, far-o£E things. 


LoED Btkon. 


And battles long ago ; 




Or is it some more humble lay, 




FamUiar matter of to-day ? 


jpermionc. 


Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. 


That has been, or may be again °i 


Thou hast beauty bright and fair, 


Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 


Manner noble, aspect free, 
Eyes that are untouched by care : 
What then do we ask from thee? 


As if her song could have no ending ; 
I saw her singing at her work 


Hermiorie, Hermione 9 


And o'er her sickle bending ; — 
I listened motionless and stUl ; 




And, as I mounted up the hill, 


Thou hast reason quick and strong, 


The music in my heart I bore 


Wit that envious men admire, 


Long after it was heard no more. 


And a voice, itself a song ! 


WiT.T.TAM Wordsworth. 


What then can we still desire % 




H&rmione, Hermione 9 




Something thou dost want, queen ! 


0l)e tnas a |)l)antom of iUeligljt. 


(As the gold doth ask alloy) : 


She was a phantom of delight 


Tears amid thy laughter seen. 


- When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 


Pity mingling with thy joy. 


A lovely apparition, sent 


This is all we ask from thee, 


To be a moment's ornament : 


Hermione, Hermione ! 


Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 


Bakbt Cornwall. 


Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair, 



I 



TO MY SISTER. 



677 



But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful dawn — 
A dancing shape, an image gay, 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too : 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food — 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now 1 see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller between life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will. 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
A perfect woman, nobly planned. 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel light. 

William Woedswokth. 



So tng Sister, 

WITH A COPY OF " SUPBENATUEALISM OF NEW 
ENGLAND." 

Deae sister ! while the wise and sage 
Turn coldly from my playful page, 
And count it strange that ripened age 

Should stoop to boyhood's folly — 
I know that thou wilt judge aright 
Of all that makes the heart more light, 
Or lends one star-gleam to the night 

Of clouded melancholy. 

Away with weary cares and themes ! 
Swing wide the moonlit gate of dreams ! 
Leave free once more the land which teems 

With wonders and romances ! 
Where thou, with clear discerning eyes, 
Shalt rightly read the truth which lies 
Beneath the quaintly-masking guise 

Of wild and wizard fancies. 



Lo ! once again our feet we set 

On stUl green wood-paths, twilight wet. 

By lonely brooks, whose waters fret 

The roots of spectral beeches ; 
Again the hearth-fire glimmers o'er 
Home's whitewashed wall and painted floor. 
And young eyes widening to the lore 

Of faery-folks and witches. 

Dear heart ! — the legend is not vain 
Which lights that holy hearth again ; 
And, calling back from care and pain, 

And death's funereal sadness, 
Draws round its old familiar blaze 
The clustering groups of happier days. 
And lends to sober manhood's gaze 

A glimpse of childish gladness. 

And, knowing how my life hath been 

A weary work of tongue and pen, 

A long, harsh strife, with strong-willed men, 

Thou wilt not chide my turning 
To eon, at times, an idle rhyme. 
To pluck a flower from childhood's clime. 
Or listen, at life's noonday chime. 

For the sweet bells of morning ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



illotl)cr iiTargcrg. 

On a bleak ridge, from whose granite edges 

Sloped the rough land to the grisly north ; 
And whose hemlocks, clinging to the ledges. 

Like a thinned banditti staggered forth — 
In a crouching, wormy-timbered hamlet 

Mother Margery shivered in the cold, 
With a tattered robe of faded camlet 

On her shoulders — crooked, weak, and old. 

Time on her had done his cruel pleasure ; 

For her face was very dry and thin. 
And the records of his growing measure 

Lined and cross-lined all her shrivelled skin. 
Scanty goods to her had been allotted. 

Yet her thanks rose oftener than desire ; 
While her bony fingers, bent and knotted. 

Fed with withered twigs the dying fire. 



678 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Raw and weary were the northern winters ; 

Winds howled piteously around her cot, 
Or with rude sighs made the jarring splinters 

Moan the misery she bemoaned not. 
Drifting tempests rattled at her windows, 

And hung snow-wreaths round her naked bed ; 
While the wind-flaws muttered on the cinders, 

Till the last spark fluttered and was dead. 

Life had fresher hopes when she was younger, 

But their dying wrung out no complaints ; 
Chill, and penury, and neglect, and hunger — 

These to Margery were guardian saints. 
When she sat, her head was, prayer-like, bending ; 

When she rose, it rose not any more ; 
Paster seemed her true heart graveward tending 

Than her tired feet, weak and travel-sore. 

She was mother of the dead and scattered — 

Had been mother of the brave and fair ; 
But her branches, bough by bough, were shattered. 

Till her torn breast was left dry and bare. 
Yet she knew, though sadly desolated. 

When the children of the poor depart, 
Their earth-vestures are but sublimated, 

So to gather closer in the heart. 

With a courage that had never fitted 

Words to speak it to the soul it blessed. 
She endured, in silence and unpitied. 

Woes enough to mar a stouter breast. 
Thus was born such holy trust within her. 

That the graves of all who had been dear, 
To a region clearer and serener, 

Raised her spirit from our chilly sphere. 

They were footsteps on her Jacob's ladder ; 

Angels to her were the loves and hopes 
Which had left her purified, but sadder ; 

And they lured her to the emerald slopes 
Of that heaven where anguish never flashes 

Her red fire-whips, — happy land, where flowers 
Blossom over the volcanic ashes 

Of this blighting, blighted world of ours. 

All her power was a love of goodness ; 

All her wisdom was a mystic faith 
That the rough world's jargoning and rudeness 

Turns to music at the gate of death. 



So she walked while feeble limbs allowed her, 
Knowing well that any stubborn grief 

She might meet with could no more than crowd 
her 
To that wall whose opening was relief. 

So she lived, an anchoress of sorrow. 

Lone and peaceful, on the rocky slope ; 
And, when burning trials came, would borrow 

New fire of them for the lamp of hope. 
When at last her palsied hand, in groping, 

Rattled tremulous at the grated tomb. 
Heaven flashed round her joys beyond her hoping. 

And her young soul gladdened into bloom. 

George S. Burleigh. 



^n Qfjjitapf) on X\)t ^bmirablc ^Dramatic 
|}oft, iD. Ql)akesj]eare. 

What needs my Shakespeare for his honored 

bones — 
The labor of an age in piled stones ? 
Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid 
Under a starry-pointing pyramid *? 
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame. 
What need'st thou such weak witness of thy 

name? 
Thou in our wonder and astonishment 
Hast built thyself a live-long monument. 
For whilst to the shame of slow-endeavoring art 
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart 
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book 
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took. 
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, 
Dost make us marble with too much conceiv- 
ing ; 
And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie 
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. 

John Milton. 



®n !l.ncicrcon. 

ABOUND the tomb, bard divine. 

Where soft thy hallowed brow reposes, 

Long may the deathless ivy twine. 
And summer pour her waste of roses ! 



SHAKESPEARE. 



679 



And many a ioxvaX shall there distil, 
And many a rill refresh the flowers ; 

But wine shall gush in every rill, 
And every fount yield milky showers. 

Thus — shade of him whom nature taught 
To tune his lyre and soul to pleasure — 

Who gave to love his warmest thought, 
Who gave to love his fondest measure — 

Thus, after death if spirits feel. 

Thou may'st from odors round thee streaming, 
A pulse of past enjoyment steal. 

And live again in blissful dreaming. 

Antipater or Sidon. (Greek.) 
Paraphrase of Thomas Moobb. 



£il)akcspcarc. 

How little fades from earth when sink to rest 
The hours and cares that move a great man's 

breast ! 
Though, nought of all we saw the grave may 

spare, 
His life pervades the world's impregnate air ; 
Though Shakespeare's dust beneath our footsteps 

lies, 
His spirit breathes amid his native skies ; 
With meaning won from him for ever glows 
Each air that England feels, and star it knows ; 
His whispered words from many a mother's voice 
Can make her sleeping child in dreams rejoice ; 
And gleams from spheres he first conjoined to 

earth 
Are blent with rays of each new morning's birth. 
Amid the sights and tales of common things. 
Leaf, flower, and bird, and wars, and deaths of 

kings, — 
Of shore, and sea, and nature's daily round. 
Of life that tills, and tombs that load, the ground. 
His visions mingle, swell, command, pace by. 
And haunt with living presence heart and eye ; 
And tones from him, by other bosoms caught. 
Awaken flush and stir of mounting thought ; 
And the long sigh, and deep impassioned thrill. 
Rouse custom's trance and spur the faltering will. 
Above the goodly land, more his than ours. 
He sits supreme, enthroned in skyey towers. 



And sees the heroic brood of his creation 
Teach larger life to his ennobled nation. 
shaping brain ! flashing fancy's hues ! 
boundless heart, kept fr.esh by pity's dews ! 
wit humane and blithe ! sense sublime ! 
For each dim oracle of mantled time ! 
Transcendant form of man ! in whom we read 
Mankind's whole tale of impulse, thought, and 

deed ! 
Amid the expanse of years, beholding thee. 
We know how vast our world of life may be ; 
Wherein, perchance, with aims. as pure as thine. 
Small tasks and strengths may be no less divine. 

John Sterling. 



AN ECLOGUE. 

THE ARGUMENT. 

Philarete on Willy calls, 

To sing out Ms pastorals ; 

Warrants fame shall grace his rhymes, 

^Spite of envy and the times ; 

And shews how in care he uses 

To take comfort from his muses. 



Philarete. 



Willy. 



PHILARETE. 



Prtthee, Willy! tell me this — 
What new accident there is 
That thou, once the blithest lad, 
Art become so wondrous sad. 
And so careless of thy quill, 
As if thou hadst lost thy skill ? 
Thou wert wont to charm thy flocks. 
And among the massy rocks 
Hast so cheered me with thy song 
That I have forgot my wrong. 
Something hath thee surely crost, 
That thy old wont thou hast lost. 
Tell me — have I aught mis-said. 
That hath made thee ill-apaid ? 
Hath some churl done thee a spite ? 
Dost thou miss a lamb to-night? 
Frowns thy fairest shepherd's lass ? 
Or how comes this ill to pass ? 



680 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Is there any discontent 


Tom the piper doth not play 


Worse than this my banishment f 


Till he wears his pipe away — 




There 's a time to slack the string, 


WILLY. 


And a time to leave to sing. 


Why, doth that so evil seem 




That thou nothing worse dost deem? 


PHILARETE. 


Shepherds there full many be 




That will change contents with thee ; 


Yea ! but no man now is still 


Those that choose their walks at will, 


That can sing, or tune a quill. 


On the valley or the hill — 


Now to chaunt it were but reason — 


Or those pleasures boast of can 


Song and music are in season. 


Groves or fields may yield to man — 


Now, in this sweet jolly tide, 


Never come to know the rest. 


Is the earth in all her pride ; 


Wherewithal thy mind is blest. 


The fair lady of the May, 


Many a one that oft resorts 


Trimmed up in her best array, 


To make up the troop at sports. 


Hath invited all the swains. 


And in company some while 


With the lasses of the plains. 


Happens to strain forth a smile. 


To attend upon her sport 


Feels more want and outward smart, 


At the places of resort. 


And more inward grief of heart. 


Coridon, with his bold rout, 


Than this place can bring to thee, 


Hath already been about 


While thy mind remaineth free. 


For the elder shepherd's dole. 


Thou bewail'st my want of mirth — 


And fetched in the summer-pole ; 


But what find'st thou in this earth 


Whilst the rest have built a bower 


Wherein aught may be believed 


To defend them from a shower — 


Worth to make me joy or grieved ? 


Coiled so close, with boughs all green. 


And yet feel I, naitheless, 


Titan cannot pry between. 


Part of both I must confess. 


Now the dairy wenches dream 


Sometime I of mirth do borrow — 


Of their strawberries and cream ; 


Otherwhile as much of sorrow ; 


And each doth herself advance 


But my present state is such 


To be taken in to dance ; 


As nor joy nor grieve I much. 


Every one that knows to sing 




Fits him for his carolling ; 


PHILARETE. 


So do those that hope for meed 




Either by the pipe or reed ; 


Why hath Willy then so long 


And, though I am kept away. 


Thus forborne his wonted song ? 


I do hear, this very day. 


Wherefore doth he now let fall 


Many learned grooms do wend 


His well-tuned pastoral, 


For the garlands to contend : 


And my ears that music bar 


Which a nymph, that hight Desert, 


Which I more long after far 


Long a stranger in this part. 


Than the liberty I want 1 


With her own fair hand hath wrought — 




A rare work, they say, past thought. 


WILLY. 


As appeareth by the name. 


That were very much to grant. 


For she calls them wreaths of fame. 


But doth this hold alway, lad —7 


She hath set in their due place 


Those that sing not must be sad ? 


Every flower that may grace ; 


Didst thou ever that bird hear 


And among a thousand moe. 


Sing well that sings all the year ? 


Whereof some but serve for show, 



TEE SHEPEEBD'S EUNTING. 



681 



She hath wove m Daphne's tree, 
That they may not blasted be ; 
Which with time she edged about, 
Lest the work should ravel out ; 
And that it might wither never, 
Intermixed it with live-ever. 
These are to be shared among 
Those that do excel for song. 
Or their passions can rehearse 
In the smooth'st and sweetest verse. 
Then for those among the rest 
That can play and pipe the best, 
There 's a kidling with the dam, 
A fat wether and a lamb. 
And for those that leapen far. 
Wrestle, run, and throw the bar. 
There 's appointed guerdons too : 
He that best the first can do 
Shall for his reward be paid 
With a sheep-hook, fair inlaid 
With fine bone of a strange beast 
That men bring out of the west ; 
For the next a scrip of red, 
Tasselled with fine colored thread ; 
There 's prepared for their meed 
That in running make most speed. 
Or the cunning measures foot, 
Cups of turned maple-root, 
Wliereupon the skilful man 
Hath engraved the loves of Pan ; 
And the last hath for his due 
A fine napkin wrought with blue. 
Then, my Willy, why art thou 
Careless of thy merit now ? 
What dost thou here, with a wight 
That is shut up from delight 
In a solitary den, 
As not fit to live with men ? 
Go, my Willy ! get thee gone — 
Leave me in exile alone ; 
Hie thee to that merry throng. 
And amaze them with thy song ! 
Thou art young, yet such a lay 
Never graced the month of May, 
As, if they provoke thy skill. 
Thou canst fit unto thy quill. 
I with wonder heard thee sing 
At our last year's revelling. 



Then I with the rest was free, 
When, unknown, I noted thee. 
And perceived the riider swains 
Envy thy far sweeter strains. 
Yea, I saw the lasses cling 
Round about thee in a ring, 
As if each one jealous were 
Any but herself should hear ; 
And I know they yet do long 
For the residue of thy song. 
Haste thee then to sing it forth ; 
Take the benefit of worth ; 
And Desert will sure bequeath 
Fame's fair garland for thy wreath. 
Hie thee, Willy ! hie away. 

WILLY. 

Phila ! rather let me stay, 
And be desolate with thee. 
Than at those their revels be. 
Naught such is my skill, I wis, 
As indeed thou deem'st it is ; 
But whate'er it be, I must 
Be content, and shall I trust. 
For a song I do not pass 
'Mongst my friends ; but what, alas ! 
Should I have to do with them 
That my music do contemn ? 
Some there are, as well I wot, 
That the same yet favor not; 
Yet I cannot well avow 
They my carols disallow ; 
But such malice I have spied, 
'Tis as much as if they did. 

PHILAEETE. 

Willy ! what may those men be 
Are so ill to malice thee f 



Some are worthy-well esteemed ; 
Some without worth, are so deemed ; 
Others of so base a spirit 
They have nor esteem nor merit. 

PHILAEETE. 

What 's the wrong ? . . . . 



682 P0E3IS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


WILLY. 


Sitting by the crimson stream ; 


A slight ofEence, 


Where if thou didst well or no 


Wherewithal I can dispense ; 


Yet remains the song to show. 


But hereafter, for their sake, 


Much experience more I've had 


To myself I'll music make. 


Of thy skill, thou happy lad ; 


J 


And would make the world to know it, 


PHILARETE. 


But that time will further show it. 


What, because some clown offends, 


Envy makes their tongues now run, 


Wilt thou punish all thy friends ? 


More than doubt of what is done ; 
For that needs must be thine own, 


WILLY. 


Or to be some other's known ; 




But how then will 't suit unto 


Do not, Phil ! misunderstand me — 


What thou shalt hereafter do ? 


Those that love me may command me ; 


Or I wonder where is he 


But thou know'st I am but young, 
And the pastoral I sung 


Would with that song part with thee ! 
Nay, were there so mad a swain 


Is by some supposed to be. 


Could such glory sell for gain. 


By a strain, too high for me ; 


Phoebus would not have combined 


So they kindly let me gain 


That gift with so base a mind. 


Not my labor for my pain. 


Never did the nine impart 
The sweet secrets of their art 


Trust me, I do wonder why 


They should me my own deny. 


Unto any that did scorn 


Though I'm young, I scorn to flit 


We should see their favors worn. 


On the wings of borrowed wit ; 


Therefore, unto those that say 


I'll make my own feathers rear me. 
Whither others cannot bear me. 


Were they pleased to sing a lay 
They could do 't, and will not tho', 
This I speak, for this I know — 


Yet I'll keep my skill in store. 


Till I've seen some winters more. 






None e'er drank the Thespian spring. 




And knew how, but he did sing ; 


PHILARETE. 


For, that once infused in man, 


But in earnest mean'st thou so ? — 


Makes him shew 't, do what he can ; 


Then thou art not wise, I trow : 


Nay, those that do only sip. 


Better shall advise thee Pan, 


Or but e'en their fingers dip 


For thou dost not rightly then ; 


In that sacred fount, poor elves ! 


That 's the ready way to blot 


Of that brood will show themselves. 


All the credit thou hast got. 


Yea, in hope to get them fame, 


Rather in thy age's prime 


They will speak, though to their shame. 


Get another start of time ; 


Let those, then, at thee repine 


And make those that so fond be. 


That by their wits measure thine ; 


Spite of their own dulness, see 


Needs those songs must be thine own, 


That the sacred muses can 


And that one day will be known. 


Make a child in years a man. 


That poor imputation, too. 


It is known what thou canst do ; 


I myself do undergo ; 


For it is not long ago, 


But it will appear, ere long. 


When that Cuddy, thou and I, 


That 'twas envy sought our wrong, 


Each the other's skill to try, , 


Who, at twice ten, have sung more 


At Saint Dunstan's charmed well, 


Than some will do at four score. 


As some present there can tell, 


Cheer thee, honest Willy ! then, 


Sang upon a sudden theme. 


And begin thy song again. 



TEE SEEPEERE'S EUNTING. 683 


WILLY. 


Her short wings were dipt of late ; 


Pain I would ; but I do fear, 
When again my lines they hear, 
If they yield they are my rhymes. 
They will feign some other crimes ; 
And 'tis no safe venturing by 
Where we see detraction lie ; 
For, do what I can, I doubt 
She will pick some quarrel out ; 
' And I oft have heard defended 
Little said is soon amended. 


And poor I, her fortune raing, 
And myself put up a-mewing. 
But if 1 my cage can rid, 
I'll fly where I never did ; 
And though for her sake I'm crost, 
Though my best hopes I have lost. 
And knew she would make my trouble 
Ten times more than ten times double, 
I should love and keep her too, 
'Spite of all the world could do. 
Por, though banished from my flocks, 


PHILARETE. 


And confined within these rocks, 
Here I waste away the light. 


See'st thou not, in clearest days 


And consume the sullen night. 


Oft thick fogs cloud heaven's rays? 


She doth for my comfort stay, 


And that vapors, which do bi-eathe 


And keeps many cares away. 


Prom the earth's gross womb beneath 


Though I miss the flow'ry fields, 


Seem unto us with black steams 


"With those sweets the spring-tide yields — 


To pollute the sun's bright beams — 


Though I may not see these groves 


And yet vanish into air, 


Where the shepherds ehaunt their loves, 


Leaving it, unblemished, fair? 


And the lasses more excel 


So, my Willy, shall it be 


Than the sweet-voiced Philomel — 


With detraction's breath on thee — 


Though of all those pleasures past 


It shall never rise so high 


Nothing now remains at last 


As to stain thy poesy. 


But remembrance, poor relief, 


As that sun doth oft exhale 


That more makes than mends my grief — 


Vapors from each rotten vale, 


She 's my mind's companion still. 


Poesy so sometimes drains 


Maugre envy's evil wiU ; 


Gross conceits from muddy brains — 


Whence she should be driven too. 


Mists of envy, fogs of spite. 


Were 't in mortal's power to do. 


'Twixt men's judgments and her light ; 


She doth tell me where to borrow 


But so much her power may do 


Comfort in the midst of sorrow. 


That she can dissolve them too. 


Makes the desolatest place 


If thy verse do bravely tower. 


To her presence be a grace. 


As she makes wing she gets power ; 


And the blackest discontents 


Yet the higher she doth soar 


To be pleasing ornaments. 


She 's affronted still the more, 


In my former days of bliss 


Till she to the high'st hath past, 


Her divine skill taught me this — 


Then she rests with fame at last. 


That from every thing I saw 


Let naught, therefoi-e, thee affright, 


I could some invention draw. 


But make forward in thy flight. 


And raise pleasure to her height 


Por, if I could match thy rhyme. 


Through the meanest object's sight ; 


To the very stars I'd climb ; 


By the murmur of a spring. 


There begin again, and fly 


Or the least bough's rusteling — 


Till I reached eternity. 


By a daisy, whose leaves, spread, 


But, alas ! my muse is slow — 


Shut when Titan goes to bed — 


Per thy place she flags too low ; 


Or a shady bush or tree. 


Yea — the more 's her hapless fate — 


She could more infuse in me 



G84 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Than all nature's beauties can 

En some other wiser man. 

By her help I also now 

Make this churlish place allow 

Some things that may sweeten gladness 

In the very gall of sadness : 

The dull loneness, the black shade 

That these hanging-vaults have made ; 

The strange music of the waves, 

Beating on these hollow caves ; 

This black den, which rocks emboss, 

Overgrown with eldest moss ; 

The rude portals that give light 

More to terror than delight ; 

This my chamber of neglect. 

Walled about with disrespect ; — 

From all these, and this dull air, 

A fit object for despair. 

She hath taught me, by her might, 

To draw comfort and delight. 

Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, 

I will cherish thee for this. 

Poesy, thou sweet'st content 

That e'er heaven to mortals lent ! 

Though they as a trifle leave thee 

Whose dull thoughts Cannot conceive thee- 

Though thou be to them a scorn 

That to naught but earth are born — 

Let my life no longer be 

Than I am in love with thee ; 

Though our wise ones call thee madness, 

Let me never taste of gladness 

If I love not thy madd'st fits 

More than all their greatest wits ; 

And though some, too seeming holy. 

Do account thy raptures folly. 

Thou dost teach me to contemn 

What makes knaves and fools of them, 

high power ! that oft doth carry 
Men above 

WILLY. 

. . . . Good PhUarete, tarry! 

1 do fear thou wilt be gone 
Quite above my reach anon. 

The kind flames of poesy , 

Have now borne thy thoughts so high 
That they up in heaven be, 
And have quite forgotten me. 



Call thyself to mind again — 
Are these raptures for a swain 
That attends on lowly sheep, 
And with simple herds doth keep ? 

PHILAEETE. 

Thanks, my Willy ! I had run 
Till that time had lodged the sun, 
If thou hadst not made me stay ; 
But thy pardon here 1 pray ; 
Loved Apollo's sacred sire 
Had raised up my spirits higher, 
Through the love of poesy. 
Than indeed they use to fly. 
But as I said I say still — 
If that I had Willy's skill. 
Envy nor detraction's tongue 
Should e'er make me leave my song ; 
But I'd sing it every day. 
Till they pined themselves away. 
Be thou then advised in this. 
Which both just and fitting is — 
Finish what thou hast begun, 
Or at least still forward run. 
Hail and thunder ill he'll bear 
That a blast of wind doth fear ; 
And if words will thus affray thee, 
Prythee how will deeds dismay thee ? 
Do not think so rathe a song 
Can pass through the vulgar throng. 
And escape without a touch — 
Or that they can hurt it much. 
Frosts we see do nip that thing 
Which is forward'st in the spring ; 
Tet at last, for all such lets. 
Somewhat of the rest it gets ; 
And I'm sure that so mayst thou. 
Therefore, my kind Willy, now. 
Since thy folding-time draws on, 
And I see thou must be gone. 
Thee I earnestly beseech 
To remember this my speech. 
And some little counsel take. 
For Philarete his sake ; 
And I more of this will say. 
If thou come next holiday. 

GeOKGE WlTHEIt. 



COWJPHR'S GRAVE. 



685 



I will invite thee, from thy envious hearse 

To rise, and 'bout the world thy beams to spread, 

That we may see there 's brightness in the dead. 

Harrington. 

It is a place where poets crowned 

May feel the heart's decaying — 
It is a place where happy saints 

May weep amid their praying ; 
Yet let the grief and humbleness, 

As low as silence, languish — 
Earth surely now may give her calm 

To whom she gave her anguish. 

poets ! from a maniac's tongue 

Was poured the deathless singing ! 
Christians ! at your cross of hope 

A hopeless hand was clinging I 
men ! this man, in brotherhood. 

Your weary paths beguiling. 
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, 

And died while ye were smiling ! 

And now, what time ye all may read 

Through dimming tears his story — 
How discord on the music fell. 

And darkness on the glory — 
And how when, one by one, sweet sounds 

And wandering lights departed. 
He wore no less a loving face, 

Because so broken-hearted — 

He shall be strong to sanctify 

The poet's high vocation. 
And bow the meekest Christian down 

In meeker adoration ; 
Nor ever shall he be in praise 

By wise or good forsaken — 
Named softly, as the household name 

Of one whom God hath taken ! 

With sadness that is calm, not gloom, 

I learn to think upon him ; 
With meekness that is gratefulness. 

On God whose heaven hath won him — 
Who suffered once the madness-cloud 

Toward his love to blind him ; 
But gently led the blind along 

Where breath and bird could find him ; 



And wrought within his shattered brain 

Such quick poetic senses 
As hills have language for, and stars 

Harmonious influences ! 
The pulse of dew upon the grass, 

His own did calmly number ; 
And silent shadow from the trees 

Fell o'er him like a slumber. 

The very world, by God's constraint, 

From falsehood's chill removing, 
Its women and its men became. 

Beside him, true and loving ! 
And timid hares were drawn from woods 

To share his home-caresses, 
Uplooking to his human eyes 

With sylvan tendernesses. 

But while in blindness he remained 

Unconscious of the guiding. 
And things provided came without 

The sweet sense of providing, 
He testified this solemn truth. 

Though frenzy desolated — 
Nor man nor nature satisfy, 

When only God created ! 

Like a sick child that knoweth not 

His mother while she blesses. 
And droppeth on his burning brow 

The coolness of her kisses ; 
That turns his fevered eyes around — 

" My mother ! where 's my mother f " — 
As if such tender words and looks 

Could come from any other — 

The fever gone, with leaps of heart 

He sees her bending o'er him ; 
Her face all pale from watchful love, 

Th' unweary love she bore him ! 
Thus woke the poet from the dream 

His life's long fever gave him. 
Beneath those deep, pathetic eyes 

Which closed in death to save him ! 

Thus ! oh, not thus ! no type of earth 

Could image that awaking. 
Wherein he scarcely heard the chant 

Of seraphs, round him breaking — 



686 P0E3IS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Or felt the new immortal throb 


There, lanely, by the ingle-eheek, 


Of soul from body parted ; 


I sat and eyed the spewing reek, 


But felt those eyes alone, and knew 


That filled, wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 


" My Saviour ! not deserted ! " 


The auld clay biggin ; 


Deserted ! who hath dreamt that when 


An' heard the restless rattons squeak 
About the riggia'. 


The cross in darkness rested, 




Upon the victim's hidden face 


All in this mottle, misty clime. 


No love was manifested ? 


I backward mused on wasted time — 


What frantic hands outstretched have e'er 


How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 


The atoning drops averted, 


An' done nae thing 


What tears have washed them from the soul, 


But stringin' blethers up in rhyme. 


That one should be deserted? 


For fools to sing. 


Deserted ! God could separate 


Had I to guid advice but harkit. 


From His own essence rather ; 


I might, by this, hae led a market, 


And Adam's sins have swept between 


Or strutted in a bank and clarkit 


The righteous Son and Father ; 


My cash-account ; 


Yea ! once, Immanuel's orphaned cry 


While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit. 


His universe hath shaken — 


Is a' th' amount. 


It went up single, echoless, 




" My God, I am forsaken ! " 


I started, muttering, " blockhead ! coof ! " 




And heaved on high my waukit loof, 


It went up from the holy lips 


To swear by a' yon starry roof, 


Amid His lost creation, 


Or some rash aith, 


That of the lost no son should use 


That I, henceforth, would be rhyme proof 


Those words of desolation ; 


Till my last breath — 


That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, 




Should mar not hope's fruition ; 


Wlien click ! the string the snick did draw ; 


And I, on Cowper's grave, should see 


And jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 


His rapture, in a vision ! 


An' by my ingle lowe I saw, 


Elizabeth Bakkett Brottninq. 


Now bleezin' bright, 




A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw, 




Come full in sight. 


®l)e t)ision. 


Ye need na doubt I held my whist — 


DUAN FIRST. 


The infant aith, half -formed, was crusht, 




I glowered as eerie 's I'd been dush't 


The sun had closed the winter day, 


In some wild glen. 


The curlers quat their roaring play, 


When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht. 


An' hungered maukin ta'en her way 


And stepped ben. 


To kail-yards green. 




While faithless snaws ilk step betray 


Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 


Whar she has been. 


Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows ; 




I took her for some Scottish muse 


The thresher's weary fl.ingin-tree 


By that same token, 


The lee-lang day had tired me ; 


An' come to stop those reckless vows, 


And whan the day had closed his 5e, 


Wou'd soon been broken. 


Far i' the west. 




Ben i' the spence right pensivelie 


A " hair-brained sentimental trace " 


I gaed to rest. 


Was strongly marked in her face ; 



TEE VISION. 



687 



A wildy-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upoa her ; 
Her eye, ev'n turned on empty space, 

Beamed keen with honor. 

Down flowed her robe, a tartan sheen, 
Till half a leg was serimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! — my bonnie Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nane else came near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue, 

My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 

Deep lights and shades, bold mingling, threw 

A lustre grand. 
And seemed, to my astonished view, 

A well-known land. 

Here rivers in the sea were lost ; 
There mountains to the skies were tost ; 
Here tumbling billows marked the coast 

With surging foam ; 
There distant shone art's lofty boast. 

The lordly dome. 

Here Doon poured down his far-fetched floods ; 
There well-fed Irwine stately thuds; 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, 

On to the shore ; 
And many a lesser torrent scuds, 

With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread. 

An ancient borough reared her head ; 

Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She boasts a race 
To every nobler virtue bred. 

And polished grace. 

By stately tower or palace fair. 

Or ruins pendent in the air. 

Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seemed to muse — some seemed to dare 

With feature stern. 

My heart did glowing transport feel. 
To see a race heroic wheel. 



And brandish round the deep-dyed steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
While back-recoiling seemed to reel 

Their Suthron foes. 

His country's saviour, mark him well ! 
Bold Kichardton's heroic swell ; 
The chief on Sark who glorious fell. 

In high command ; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a sceptred Pictish shade 
Stalked round his ashes lowly laid, 
I marked a martial race, portrayed 

In colors strong ; 
Bold, soldier-featured, undismayed, 

They strode along. 

Through many a wild, romantic grove, 
Near many a hermit-fancied cove 
(Pit haunts for friendship or for love). 

In musing mood. 
An aged judge, I saw him rove, 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awe 
The learned sire and son I saw : 
To nature's God and nature's law 

They gave their lore ; 
This, all its source and end to draw — 

That, to adore. 

Brydone's brave ward I well could spy 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye. 
Who called on fame, low standing by 

To hand him on 
Where many a patriot-name on high, 

And hero shone. 



DUAN SECOND. 

With musing deep, astonished stare, 
I viewed the heavenly-seeming fair ; 
A whispering throb did witness bear 

Of kindred sweet. 
When, with an elder sister's air. 

She did me greet : — 



688 POEMS OF SENTUIENT AND REFLECTION. 


All hail ! my own inspired bard, 


When yellow waves the heavy grain. 


In me thy native muse regard ; 


The threat'niug storm some strongly rein ; 


Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 


Some teach to meliorate the plain 


Thus poorly low ! 


With tillage skiU ; 


I come to give thee such reward 


And some instruct the shepherd train. 


As we bestow. 


Blithe o'er the hill. 


Know the great genius of this land 


Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 


Has many a light aerial band, 


Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 


Who, all beneath his high command. 


Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil 


Harmoniously, 


For humble gains, 


As arts or arms they understand, 


And make his cottage-scenes beguile 


Their labors ply. 


His cares and pains. 


They Scotia's race among them share : 


Some, bounded to a district-space, 


Some iire the soldier on to dare ; 


Explore at large man's infant race, 


Some rouse the patriot up to bare 


To mark the embryotic trace. 


Corruption's heart ; 


Of rustic bard ; 


Some teach the bard, a darling care, 


And careful note each op'ning grace — 


The tuneful art. 


A guide and guard. 


'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore 


Of these am I — Coila my name; 


They ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 


And this district as mine I claim. 


Or 'mid the venal senate's roar 


Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, 


They, sightless, stand, 


Held ruling pow'r ; 


To mend the honest pa,triot lore, 


I marked thy embryo tuneful flame. 


And grace the land. 


Thy natal hour. 


And when the bard, or hoary sage. 


With future hope I oft would gaze. 


Charm or instruct the future age. 


Fond, on thy little early ways, 


They bind the wild poetic rage 


Thy rudely carolled, chiming phrase 


In energy. 


In uncouth rhymes, 


Or point the inconclusive page 


Fired at the simple artless lays 


Pull on the eye. 


Of other times. 


Hence Pullarton, the brave and young ; 


I saw thee seek the sounding shore. 


Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue ; 


Delighted with the dashing roar ; 


Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 


Or when the North his fleecy store 


His minstrel lays ; 


Drove through the sky. 


Or tore, with noble ardor stung. 


I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 


The skeptic's bays. 


Struck thy young eye. 


To lower orders are assigned 


Or when the deep green-mantled earth 


The humbler ranks of human kind : 


Warm cherished every flow'ret's birth. 


The rustic bard, the lab'ring hind,* 


And joy and music pouring forth 


The artisan — 


In every grove. 


All choose, as various they 're inclined. 


I saw thee eye the general mirth 


The various man. 


With boundless love. 



ON TEE DEATH OF BURNS. 689 


When ripened fields and azure skies 


To give my counsels all in one — 


Called forth the reapers' rustling noise, 


Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 


I saw thee leave their evening joys, 


Preserve the dignity of man, 


And lonely stalk 


With soul erect ; 


To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 


And trust the universal plan 


In pensive walk. 


Will all protect. 


When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, 


And wear thou this ! — she solemn said, 


Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along. 


And bound the holly roimd my head ; 


Those accents grateful to thy tongue, 


The polished leaves and berries red 


Th' adored name, 


Did rustling play — 


I taught thee how to pour in song. 


And, like a passing thought, she fled 


To soothe thy flame. 


In light away. 




EOBEKT BUBNS. 


I saw thy pulse's maddening play 




Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, 




Misled by fancy's meteor ray. 


QDn X\)e JHcatl) of Burns. 


By passion driven ; 




But yet the light that led astray 


Rear high thy bleak majestic hills. 


Was light from heaven. 


Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread — 




And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills. 


I taught thy manners-painting strains, 


And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 


The loves, the ways of simple swains — 


But, ah ! what poet now shall tread 


Till now, o'er all my wide domains 


Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign. 


Thy fame extends, 


Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead, 


And some, the pride of Coila's plains, 


That ever breathed the soothing strain ? 


Become thy friends. 




, 


As green thy towering pines may grow. 


Thou canst not learn, nor can I show. 


As clear thy streams may speed along. 


To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe. 
With Shenstone's art ; 


As bright thy summer suns may glow. 
As gayly charm thy feathery throng ; 

But now unheeded is the song. 
And dull and lifeless all around — 


Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 
Warm on the heart. 


For his wild harp lies all unstrung, 
And cold the hand that waked its sound. 


Yet all beneath th' unrivalled rose 


What though thy vigorous offspring rise — 


The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 


In arts, in arms, thy sons excel ; 


Though large the forest's monarch throws 


Though beauty in thy daughters' eyes. 


His army shade. 


And health in every feature dwell ; 


Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows 


Yet who shall now their praises tell 


Adown the glade. 


In strains impassioned, fond, and free. 




Since he no more the song shall swell 


Then never murmur nor repine ; 


To love, and liberty, and thee ! 


Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 




And trust me, not Potosi's mine, 


With step-dame eye and frown severe 


Nor kings' regard, 


His hapless youth why didst thou view ? 


C^n give a bliss o'ermatching thine. 


For all thy joys to him were dear. 


A rustic bard. 
46 


And all his vows to thee were due ; 



690 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Nor greater bliss his bosom knew, 


Let Friendship pour her brightest blaze. 


In opening youth's delightful prime, 


Expanding all the bloom of soul ; 


Than when thy favoring ear he drew 


And Mirth concentre all her rays, 


To listen to his chanted rhyme. 


And point them from the sparkling bowl ; 




And let the careless moments roll 


Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 


In social pleasures unconflned. 


To him were all with rapture fraught ; 


And confidence that spurns control. 


He heard with joy the tempest rise 


Unlock the inmost springs of mind ! 


That waked him to sublimer thought ; 




And oft thy winding dells he sought, 


And lead his steps those bowers among, 


Where wild flowers poured their rathe perfume, 


Where elegance with splendor vies. 


And with sincere devotion brought 


Or Science bids her favored throng 


To thee the summer's earliest bloom. 


To more refined sensations rise ; 




Beyond the peasant's humbler joys, 


But ah ! no fond maternal smile 


And freed from each laborious strife, 


His unprotected youth enjoyed — 


There let him learn the bliss to prize 


His limbs inured to early toil. 


That waits the sons of polished life. 


His days with early hardships tried I 




And more to mark the gloomy void, 


Then, whilst his throbbing veins beat high 


And bid him feel his misery. 


With every impulse of delight. 


Before his infant eyes would glide 


Dash from his lips the cup of joy. 


Day-dreams of immortality. 


And shroud the scene in shades of night ; 




And let despair with wizard light 


Yet, not by cold neglect depressed. 


Disclose the yawning gulf below. 


With sinewy arm he turned the soil, 


And pour incessant on his sight 


Sunk with the evening sun to rest. 


Her spectred ills and shapes of woe ; 


And met at morn his earliest smile. 




Waked by his rustic pipe meanwhile, 


And show beneath a cheerless shed. 


The powers of fancy came along, 


With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes. 


And soothed his lengthened hours of toil 


In silent grief where droops her head. 


With native wit and sprightly song. 


The partner of his early joys ; 




And let his infants' tender cries 


Ah ! days of bliss too swiftly fled. 


His fond parental succor claim, 


When vigorous health from labor springs. 


And bid him hear in agonies 


And bland contentment soothes the bed. 


A husband's and a father's name. 


And sleep his ready opiate brings ; 




And hovering round on airy wings 


'Tis done — the powerful charm succeeds ; 


Float the light forms of young desire. 


His high reluctant spirit bends; 


That of unutterable things 


In bitterness of soul he bleeds. 


The soft and shadowy hope inspire. 


Nor longer with his fate contends. 




An idiot laugh the welkin rends. 


Now spells of mightier power prepare — 


As genius thus degraded lies ; 


Bid brighter phantoms round him dance ; 


Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 


Let Flattery spread her viewless snare. 


That shrouds the poet's ardent eyes. 


And Fame attract his vagrant glance ; 




Let sprightly Pleasure too advance; 


Rear high thy bleak majestic hills. 


Unveiled her eyes, unclasped her zone — 


Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread. 


Till, lost in love's delirious trance. 


And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, • 


He scorn the joys his youth has known. 


And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 



BUENS. ■ 691 


But never more shall poet tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign ; 

Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead 
That ever breathed the soothing strain. 


Bees hummed, birds twittered, overhead 
I heard the squirrels leaping ; 

The good dog listened while I read, 
And wagged his tail in keeping. 


Wn.TJAM EOSCOB. 

JBurns. 


I watched him while in sportive mood 
I read " The Twa Dogs' " story. 

And half believe he understood 
The poet's allegory. 


No more these simple flowers belong 
To Scottish maid and lover — 

Sown in the common soil of song. 
They bloom the wide world over. 


Sweet day, sweet songs ! The golden hours 
Grew brighter for that singing. 

From brook and bird and meadow flowers 
A dearer welcome bringing. 


In smiles and tears, in sun and showers. 
The minstrel and the heather — 

The deathless singer and the flowers 
He sang of — live together. 


New light on home-seen nature beamed. 

New glory over woman ; 
And daily life and duty seemed 

No longer poor and common. 


Wild heather bells and Robert Bums 1 
The moorland flower and peasant ! 

How, at their mention, memory turns 
Her pages old and pleasant ! 


I woke to find the simple truth 

Of fact and feeling better 
Than all the dreams that held my youth 

A still repining debtor — 


The gray sky wears again its gold 

And purple of adorning. 
And manhood's noonday shadows hold 

The dews of boyhood's morning — 


That Nature gives her handmaid, Art, 
The themes of sweet discoursing. 

The tender idyls of the heart 
In every tongue rehearsing. 


The dews that washed the dust and soil 
From ofE the wings of pleasure — 

The sky that flecked the ground of toil 
With golden threads of leisure. 


Why dream of lands of gold and pearl, 

Of loving knight and lady. 
When farmer boy and barefoot girl 

Were wandering there already ? 


I call to mind the summer day — 
The early harvest mowing, 

The sky with sun and cloud at play. 
And flowers with breezes blowing. 


I saw through all familiar things 

The romance underlying — 
The joys and griefs that plume the wings 

Of fancy skyward flying. 


I hear the blackbird in the corn. 
The locust in the haying ; 

And, like the fabled hunter's horn, 
Old tunes my heart is playing. 


I saw the same blithe day return. 
The same sweet fall of even. 

That rose on wooded Craigie-burn, 
And sank on crystal Devon. 


How oft that day, with fond delay, 
I sought the maple's shadow. 

And sang with Burns the hours away, 
Forgetful of the meadow ! 


1 matched with Scotland's heathery hills 
The sweet-brier and the clover — 

With Ayr and Doon my native rills, 
Their wood-hymns chanting over. 



693 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


O'er rank and pomp, as he had seen, 


Give lettered pomp to teeth of time. 


I saw the man uprising — 


So " Bonnie Doon " but tarry ; 


No longer common or unclean, 


Blot out the epic's stately rhyme, 


The child of God's baptizing. 


But spare his " Highland Mary." 




John Greenlbaf Whittier. 


With clearer eyes I saw the worth 




Of life among the lowly ; 




The bible at his cotter's hearth 




Had made my own more holy. 


®n first Cooking into (Uliapman's 




^omcr. 


And if at times an evil strain, 




To lawless love appealing, 


Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, 


Broke in upon the sweet refrain 


And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; 


Of pure and healthful feeling, 


Round many western islands have I been 




Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 


It died upon the eye and ear, 


Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 


No inward answer gaining ; 


That deep-browed Homer ruled as his de- 


No heart had I to see or hear 


mesne ; 


The discord and the staming. 


Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 




Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and 


Let those who never erred forget 


bold: 


His worth, in vain bewailings ; 


Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 


Sweet soul of song ! I own my debt 


When a new planet swims into his ken ; 


Uncancelled by his failings ! 


Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes 




He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 


Lament who. will the ribald line 


Looked at each other with a wild surmise — 


Which tells his lapse from duty — 


Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 


How kissed the maddening lips of wine, 


John Keats. 


Or wanton ones of beauty — 




But think, while falls that shade between 


mi)lanb. 


The erring one and heaven, 




That he who loved like Magdalen, 


It is the poet Uhland, from whose wreathings 


Like her may be forgiven. 


Of rarest harmony I here have drawn. 




To lower tones and less melodious breathings, 


Not his the song whose thunderous chime 


Some simple strains, of youth and passion 


Eternal echoes render — 


bom. 


The mournful Tuscan's haunted rhyme. 




And Milton's starry splendor ; 


His is the poetry of sweet expression — 




Of clear, unfaltering tune, serene and strong — 


But who his human heart has laid 


Where gentlest thoughts and words, in soft proces- 


To nature's bosom nearer? 


sion, 


Who sweetened toil like him, or paid 


Move to the even measures of his song. 


To love a tribute dearer ? 






Delighting ever in his own calm fancies, 


Through all his tuneful art how s'trong 


He sees much beauty where most men see 


The human feeling gushes ! 


naught — 


The very moonlight of his song 


Looking at nature with familiar glances. 


Is warm with smUes and blushes. 
L- 


And weaving garlands in the groves of thought. 



SONNET. 693 


He sings of youth, and hope, and high endeavor ; 




He sings of love — oh crown of poesy ! — 


Sonnet. 


Of fate, and sorrow, and the grave — forever 




The end of strife, the goal of destiny. 


The nightingale is mute — and so art thou, 




Whose voice is sweeter than the nightingale ; 


He sings of fatherland, the minstrel's glory — 


While every idle scholar makes a vow 


High theme of memory and hope divine — 


Above thy worth and glory to prevail. 


Twining its fame with gems of antique story, 




In Suabian songs and legends of the Rhine ; 


Yet shall not envy to that level bring 




The true precedence which is born in thee ; 


In ballads breathing many a dim tradition, 


Thou art no less the prophet of the spring. 


Nourished in long belief or minstrel rhymes, 


Though in the woods thy voice now silent be. 


Fruit of the old romance, whose gentle mission 




Passed from the earth before our wiser times. 


For silence may impair but cannot kill 




The music that is native to thy soul ; 


Well do they know his name among the moun- 


Nor thy sweet mind, in this thy froward will. 


tains. 


Upon thy purest honor have control ; 


And plains and valleys, of his native land ; 


But, since thou wilt not to our wishes sing, 


Part of their nature are the sparkling fountains 


This truth I speak : thou art of poets king. 


Of his clear thought, with rainbow fancies 


Lord Thuklow. 


spanned. 




His simple lays oft sings the mother, cheerful. 


€l)orobe. 


Beside the cradle in the dim twilight ; 


His plaintive notes low breathes the maiden, tear- 


Come from my first, ay, come ! 


ful. 


The battle dawn is nigh ; 


"With tender murmurs in the ear of night. 


And the screaming trump and the thundering 


, 


drum 


The hillside swain, the reaper in the meadows. 


Are calling thee to die ! 


Carol his ditties through the toilsome day ; 




And the lone hunter in the Alpine shadows 


Fight as thy father fought ; 


E«calls his ballads by some ruin gray. 


Fall as thy father fell ; 




Thy task is taught ; thy shroud is wrought ; 


Oh precious gift ! oh wondrous inspiration ! 


So forward and farewell ! 


Of all high deeds, of all harmonious things. 




To be the oracle, while a whole nation 


Toll ye my second ! toll ! 


Catches the echo from the sounding strings ! 


Fling high the flambeau's light : 




And sing the hymn for a parted soul 


Out of the depths of feeling and emotion 


Beneath the silent night I 


Rises the orb of song, serenely bright — 




As who beholds, across the tracts of ocean. 


The wreath upon his head. 


The golden sunrise bursting into light. 


The cross upon his breast. 




Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed. 


Wide is its magic world, divided neither 


So, — take him to his rest ! 


By continent, nor sea, nor narrow zone : 




Who would not wish sometimes to travel thither. 


Call ye my whole, ay, call 


In fancied fortunes to forget his own ? 


The lord of lute and lay ; 


WiixiAM Allen Butlbb. 


And let him greet the sable pall 




With a noble song to-day ; 



694 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Go, call him by his name ! 


But divine, melodious truth — 


No fitter hand may crave 


Philosophic numbers smooth — 


To light the flame of a soldier's fame 


Tales and golden histories 


On the turf of a soldier's grave. 


Of heaven and its mysteries. 


WiNTHEOP MaCKWORTH PbAED. 


Thus ye live on high, and then 




On the earth ye live again ; 


3:0 iJlocciulas. 


And the souls ye left behind you 
Teach us here the way to find you, 


The dreamy rhymer's measured snore 
Falls heavy on our ears no more ; 
And by long strides are left behind 
The dear delights of womankind, 
Who wage their battles like their loves, 
In satin waistcoats and kid gloves, 
And have achieved the crowning work 
When they have trussed and skewered a Turk. 


Where your other souls are joying. 
Never slumbering, never cloying. 
Here your earth-bom souls still speak 
To mortals, of their little week ; 
Of their sorrows and delights ; 
Of their passions and their spites ; 
Of their glory and their shame ; 
What doth strengthen and what maim. 
Thiis ye teach us, every day, 
Wisdom, though fled far away. 


Another comes with stouter tread, 
And stalks among the statelier dead : 


He rushes on, and hails by turns 
High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns ; 
And shows the British youth, who ne'er 
Will lag behind, what Komans were. 
When all the Tuscans and their Lars 


Bards of passion and of mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Ye have souls in heaven too. 
Double-lived in regions new ! 

John B^ats. 


Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars. 




Waltbk Savage Landor. 






Ws\t iHinstrcl. 


©Ire. 


" What voice, what harp, are those we hear 




Beyond the gate in chorus % 


Bards of passion and of mirth. 


Go, page ! — the lay delights our ear ; 


Ye have left your souls on earth ! 


We'll have it sung before us ! " 


Have ye souls in heaven too, 


So speaks the king : the stripling flies — 


Double-lived in regions new % 


He soon returns ; his master cries. 


Yes, and those of heaven commune 


" Bring in the hoary minstrel ! " 


With the spheres of sun and moon ; 




With the noise of foimtains wondrous. 


" Hail, princes mine ! Hail, noble knights ! 


And the parle of voices thund'rous ; 


All hail, enchanting dames ! 


With the whisper of heaven's trees 


What starry heaven ! What blinding lights ! 


And one another, in soft ease 


Whose tongue may tell their names ? 


Seated on Elysian lawns 


In this bright hall, amid this blaze. 


Browsed by none but Dian's fawns ; 


Close, close, mine eyes ! Ye may not gaze 


Underneath large blue-bells tented, 


On such stupendous glories ! " 


Where the daisies are rose-scented, 




And the rose herself has got , 


The minnesinger closed his eyes; 


Perfume which on earth is not ; 


He struck his mighty lyre : 


Where the nightingale doth sing 


Then beauteous bosoms heaved with sighs. 


Not a senseless, tranced thing, 


And warriors felt on fire ; 



A POET'S THOUGHT. 



695 



The king, enraptured by the strain, 
Commanded that a golden chain 
Be given the bard in guerdon. 

" Not so ! Reserve thy chain, thy gold, 
For those brave knights whose glances, 

Pierce flashing through the battle bold, 
Might shiver sharpest lances ! 

Bestow it on thy treasurer there — 

The golden burden let him bear 
With other glittering burdens. 

" I sing as in the greenwood bush 

The cageless wild-bird carols ; 
The tones that from the full heart gush 

Themselves are gold and laurels ! 
Yet might I ask, then thus I ask. 
Let one bright cup of wine, in flask 

Of glowing gold, be brought me ! " 

They set it down; he quaffs it all — 

" Oh ! draught of richest flavor ! 
Oh ! thrice divinely happy hall 
Where that is scarce a favor ! 
If Heaven shall bless ye, think on me ; 
And thank your God as I thank ye 
For this delicious wine-cup ! " 

JoHANN WoLPQANG VON GoBT^. (German.) 
Translation of James Clarence Mangan. 



Sonnet. 

Who best can paint th' enamelled robe of spring. 

With flow'rets and fair blossoms well bedight ; 
Who best can her melodious accents sing, 

With which she greets the soft return of light ; 
Who best can bid the quaking tempest rage. 

And make th' imperial arch of heav'n to groan — 
Breed warfare with the winds, and finely wage 

Great strife with Neptune on his rocky throne — 
Or lose us in those sad and mournful days 

With which pale autumn crowns the misty year, 
Shall bear the prize, and in his true essays 

A poet in our awful eyes appear ; 
For whom let wine his mortal woes beguile. 
Gold, praise, and woman's thrice-endearing smile. 

Lord Thurlow. 



% Poet's a;i)ou9i)t. 

Tell me, what is a poet's thought ? 

Is it on the sudden born ? 
Is it from the starlight caught ? 
Is it by the tempest taught ? 

Or by whispering mom ? 

Was it cradled in the brain ? 

Chained awhile, or nursed in night ? 
Was it wrought with toil and pain? 
Did it bloom and fade again. 

Ere it burst to light f 

No more question of its birth : 

Rather love its better part ! 
'Tis a thing of sky and earth, 
Gathering aU its golden worth 

From the poet's heart. 

Barry Cornwall. 



Resolution anb JJnbc^jenbcnce. 

There was a roaring in the wind aU night — 
The rain came heavily and fell in floods ; 

But now the sun is rising calm and bright — 
The birds are singing in the distant woods ; 
Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods ; 

The jay makes answer as the magpie chatters ; 

And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of 
waters. 

All things that love the sun are out of doors ; 

The sky rejoices in the morning's birth ; 
The grass is bright with rain-drops ; on the moors 

The hare is running races in her mirth ; 

And with her feet she from the plashy earth 
Raises a mist that, glittering in the sun. 
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. 

I was a traveller then upon the moor ; 

I saw the hare that raced about with joy ; 
I heard the woods and distant waters roar — 

Or heard them not, as happy as a boy. 

The pleasant season did my heart employ ; 
My old remembrances went from me wholly — 
And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy. 



696 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might 
Of joy in minds that can no further go, 

As high as we have mounted in delight 
In our dejection do we sink as low — 
To me that morning did it happen so ; 

And fears and fancies thick upon me came — 

Dim sadness, and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor 
could name. 

I heard the skylark warbling in the sky ; 

And I bethought me of the playful hare : 
Even such a happy child of earth am I ; 

Even as these blissful creatures do I fare ; 

Par from the world I walk, and from all care, 
But there may come another day to me — 
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. 

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought. 
As if life's business were a summer mood — 

As if all needful things would come unsought 
To genial faith, still rich in genial good ; 
But how can he expect that others should 

Build for him, sow for him, and at his call 

Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all ? 

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, 
The sleepless soul that perished in his pride ; 

Of him who walked in glory and in joy. 
Following his plough, along the mountain-side. 
By our own spirits we are deified ; 

We poets in our youth begin in gladness. 

But thereof come in the end despondency and mad- 
ness. 

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 
A leading from above, a something given. 

Yet it befell that, in this lonely place. 
When I with these untoward thoughts had striven, 
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven 

I saw a man before me unawares — 

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore gray 
hairs. 

As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 
Couched on the bald top of an eminence, 

Wonder to all who do the same espy 
By what means it could hither come, and whence ; 
So that it seems a thing endued with sense — 

Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf 

Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself — 



Such seemed this man, not all alive nor dead, 
Nor all asleep, in his extreme old age. 

His body was bent double, feet and head 
Coming together in life's pilgrimage. 
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage 

Of sickness, felt by him in times long past, 

A more than human weight upon his frame had 
cast. 

Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, 
Upon a long gray staff of shaven wood ; 

And still, as I drew near with gentle pace, 
Upon the margin of that moorish flood. 
Motionless as a cloud the old man stood, 

That heareth not the loud winds when they call. 

And moveth all together, if it move at all. 

At length, himself unsettling, he the pond 
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look 

Upon that muddy water, which he conned 
As if he had been reading in a book. 
And now a stranger's privilege I took ; 

And, drawing to his side, to him did say, 

" This morning gives us promise of a glorious day." 

A gentle answer did the old man make, 
In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew ; 

And him with further words I thus bespake : 
" What occupation do you there pursue f 
This is a lonesome place for one like you." 

Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise 

Broke from the sable orbs of his yet vivid eyes. 

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest ; 

But each in solemn order followed each. 
With something of a lofty utterance drest, — 
Choice word and measured phrase, above the 

reach 
Of ordinary men, a stately speech. 
Such as grave livers do in Scotland use — 
Religious men, who give to God and man their 
dues. 

He told that to these waters he had come 
" To gather leeches, being old and poor — 

Employment hazardous and wearisome ! 
And he had many hardships to endure ; 
Prom pond to pond he roamed, from moor to 
moor — 



ODE 0]SI A GRECIAN URN. 



697 



Housing, with God's good help, by choice or 
chance ; 

And in this way he gained an honest mainte- 
nance. 

The old man still stood talking by my side ; 
But now his voice to me was like a stream 

Scarce heard, nor word from word could I divide ; 
And the whole body of the man did seem 
Like one whom I had met with in a dream — 

Or like a man from some far region sent 

To give me human strength by apt admonish- 
ment. 

My former thoughts returned : the fear that kills, 
And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; 

Cold, pain, and labor, and aU fleshly ills : 
And mighty poets in their misery dead. 
Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, 

My question eagerly did I renew — 

" How is it that you live, and what is it you do?" 

He with a smile did then his words repeat ; 

And said that, gathering leeches, far and wide 
He travelled, stirring thus about his feet 

The waters of the pools where they abide. 

" Once I could meet with them on every side. 
But they have dwindled long by slow (Jecay ; 
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may." 

While he was talking thus, the lonely place, 
The old man's shape and speech — all troubled 
me; 
In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace 
About the weary moors continually. 
Wandering about alone and silently. 
While I these thoughts within myself pursued, 
He, having made a pause, the same discourse re- 
newed. 

And soon with this he other matter blended — 
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanor kind. 

But stately in the main ; and when he ended 
I could have laughed myself to scorn, to find 
In that decrepit man so firm a mind. 

" God," said I, " be my help and stay secure ; 

I'll think of the leech -gatherer on the lonely 

moor ! " 

William Wordsworth. 



©be on fl Grecian Ern. 

Thou still unravished bride of quietness ! 

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme ! 
What leaf -fringed legend haunts about thy shape 
Of deities or mortals, or of both. 

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? 
What men or gods are these? what maidens 
loath ? 
What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ? 
What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstasy ? 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on — 
Not to the sensual ear, but more endeared, 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone ! 
Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not 
leave 
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; 
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss. 
Though winning near the goal ; yet do not grieve — 
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy 
bliss ; 
For ever wUt thou love, and she be fair ! 

Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu : 
And happy melodist, unwearied, 

For ever piping songs for ever new ; 
More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 

For ever warm and still to be enjoyed, 
For ever panting and for ever young ; 
All breathing human passion far above. 

That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed, 
A burning forehead and a parching tongue. 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? 

To what green altar, mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies. 

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest f 
What little town by river or sea-shore. 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel. 
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn ? 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 

Will silent be ; and not a soul, to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 



698 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede 


But come, thou goddess fair and free, 


Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 


In heav'n y-cleped Euphrosyne, 


"With forest branches and the trodden weed ! 


And, by men, heart-easing Mirth ! 


Thou, silent form ! dost tease us out of thought, 


Whom lovely Venus, at a birth 


As doth eternity. Cold pastoral ! 


With two sister graces more, 


When old age shall this generation waste, 


To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ; 


Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 


Or whether (as some sages sing) 


Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st 


The frolic wind that breathes the spring, 


"Beaiity is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 


Zephyr, with Aurora playing — 


Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 


As he met her once a-Maying — 


John Kkats. 


There, on beds of violets blue 




And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, 




Filled her with thee, a daughter fair, 


(Elie MzauQ to Attain iiap^in Cife. 


So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 


Martial, the things that do attain 


Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 


The happy life be these, I find — 


Jest, and youthful jollity — 


The riches left, not got with pain ; 


Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, 


The fruitful ground, the quiet mind, 


Nods and becks and wreathed smiles, 




Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. 


The equal friend ; no grudge, no strife ; 


And love to live in dimple sleek — 


No charge of rule, nor governance ; 


Sport, that wrinkled care derides. 


Without disease, the healthful life ; 


1^ ' ' 

And Laughter holding both his sides. 


The household of continuance ; 


Come ! and trip it, as you go, 


The mean diet, no delicate fare ; 


On the light fantastic toe ; 


True wisdom joined with simpleness ; 


And in thy right hand lead with thee 


The night discharged of all care. 


The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty ; 


Where wine the wit may not oppress ; 


And if I give thee honor due. 




Mirth, admit me of thy crew, 


The faithful wife, without debate ; 


To live with her, and live with thee. 


Such sleeps as may beguile the night ; 


In unreproved pleasures free — 


Contented with thine own estate. 


To hear the lark begin his flight. 


Ne wish for death, ne fear his might. 


And singing startle the dull night 


Henry Howaed, Eabl or Surrey. 


From his watch-tow'r in the skies, 




Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 




Then to come, in spite of sorrow. 


t'^\k%xo. 


And at my window bid good-morrow. 


Through the sweet-brier, or the vine, 


Hence, loathed Melancholy, 


Or the twisted eglantine ; 


Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born ! 


While the cock with lively din 


In Stygian cave forlorn, 


Scatters the rear of darkness thin. 


'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights un- 


And to the stack, or the barn-door. 


holy, 


Stoutly struts his dames before ; 


Find out some uncouth cell. 


Oft listening how the hounds and horn 


Where brooding darkness spreads his Jealous wings. 


Cheerly rouse the slumbering mom. 


And the night-raven sings ; « 


Prom the side of some hoar hill 


There, under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks, 


Through the high wood echoing shrill ; 


As ragged as thy locks, 


Sometime walking, not unseen, 


In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 


By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, 



L' ALLEGRO. 



699 



Right against the eastern gate, 
Where the great sun begins his state, 
Robed in flames, and amber light. 
The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; 
While the ploughman near at hand 
Whistles o'er the furrowed land. 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 
And the mower whets his scythe, 
And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 
Whilst the landscape round it measures 
Russet lawns, and fallows gray. 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray — 
Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The laboring clouds do often rest — 
Meadows trim with daisies pied. 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. 
Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosomed high in tufted trees, 
Where perhaps some beauty lies. 
The cynosure of neighboring eyes. 
Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes 
From betwixt two aged oaks. 
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met. 
Are at their savory dinner set 
Of herbs, and other country messes, 
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; 
And then in haste her bower she leaves, 
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 
Or, if the earlier season lead, 
To the tanned haycock in the mead. 
Sometimes with secure delight 
The upland hamlets will invite. 
When the merry bells ring round. 
And the jocund rebecks sound 
To many a youth, and many a maid. 
Dancing in the chequered shade ; 
And young and old come forth to play 
On a sunshine holiday, 
Till the live-long daylight fail ; 
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale 
With stories told of many a feat : 
How fairy Mab the junkets eat — 
She was pinched and pulled, she said, 
And he by friar's lantern led ; 
Tells how the drudging goblin sweat 
To earn his cream-bowl duly set. 



When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, 
His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn 
That ten day-laborers could not end ; 
Then lies him down the lubber fiend, 
And stretched out all the chimney's length. 
Basks at the fire his hairy strength, 
And, crop-full, out of doors he flings 
Ere the first cock his matin rings. 
Thus done the tales, to bed they creep. 
By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. 

Towered cities please us then. 
And the busy hum of men. 
Where throngs of knights and barons bold 
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold — 
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
Rain influence, and judge the prize 
Of wit or arms, while both contend 
To win her grace whom all commend. 
There let Hymen oft appear 
In saffron robe, with taper clear, 
And pomp and feast and revelry. 
With mask, and antique pageantry — 
Such sights as youthful poets dream 
On summer eves by haunted stream : 
Then to the well-trod stage anon. 
If Jonson's learned sock be on. 
Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child. 
Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

And ever, against eating cares, 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs, 
Married to immortal verse. 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce, 
In notes with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out. 
With wanton heed and giddy cunning 
The melting voice through mazes running. 
Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony — 
That Orpheus' self may heave his head 
From golden slumber on a bed 
Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear 
Such strains as would have won the ear 
Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
His half-regained Eurydice. 

These delights if thou canst give. 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 

John Milton. 



700 POEMS OF SENTUIENT AND REFLECTION. 




Spare fast, that oft with gods doth diet. 


Si |)enseroso. 


And hears the muses in a ring 




Aye round about Jove's altar sing ; 


Hence, vain deluding joys, 


And add to these retired leisure, 


The brood of folly without father bred ! 


That in trim gardens takes his pleasure ; 


How little you bestead, 


But first, and chiefest, with thee bring 


Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ! 


Him that yon soars on golden wing, 


Dwell in some idle brain, 


Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne — 


And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, 


The cherub Contemplation ; 


As thick and numberless 


And the mute silence hist along. 


As the gay motes that people the sunbeams — 


'Less Philomel will deign a song 


Or likest hovering dreams. 


In her sweetest, saddest plight. 


The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 


Smoothing the rugged brow of night. 


But hail, thou goddess, sage and holy ! 


While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke 


Hail, divinest Melancholy ! 


Gently o'er the accustomed oak. 


Whose saintly visage is too bright 


Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly — 


To hit the sense of human sight. 


Most musical, most melancholy ! 


And therefore to our weaker view 


Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among 


O'erlaid with black, staid wisdom's hue — 


I woo, to hear thy even-song ; 


Black, but such as in esteem 


And, missing thee, I walk unseen 


Prince Memnon's sister might beseem. 


On the dry, smooth-shaven green, 


Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove 


To behold the wandering moon 


To set her beauty's praise above 


Riding near her highest noon. 


The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended. 


Like one that had been led astray 


Yet thou art higher far descended ; 


Through the heaven's wide pathless way ; 


Thee bright-haired Vesta, long of yore, 


And oft, as if her head she bowed. 


To solitary Saturn bore — 


Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 


. His daughter she (in Saturn's reign 


Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 


Such mixture was not held a stain). 


I hear the far-off curfew sound 


Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 


Over some wide-watered shore. 


He met her, and in secret shades 


Swinging slow with sullen roar ; 


Of woody Ida's inmost grove. 


Or if the air will not permit, 


While yet there was no fear of Jove. 


Some still removed place will fit. 




Where glowing embers through the room 


Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, 


Teach light to counterfeit a gloom — 


Sober, steadfast, and demure. 


Far from all resort of mirth. 


All in a robe of darkest grain 


Save the cricket on the hearth, 


Flowing with majestic train. 


Or the bellman's drowsy charm. 


And sable stole of cypress lawn 


To bless the doors from nightly harm ; 


Over thy decent shoulders drawn ! 


Or let my lamp at midnight hour 


Come ! but keep thy wonted state. 


Be seen in some high lonely tower. 


With even step and musing gait. 


Where I may oft out-watch the bear 


And looks commercing with the skies, 


With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 


Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes ; 


The spirit of Plato, to unfold 


There, held in holy passion still. 


What worlds or what vast regions hold 


Forget thyself to marble, till • 


The immortal mind that hath forsook 


With a sad, leaden, downward cast 


Her mansion in this fleshly nook ; 


Thou fix them on the earth as fast ; 


And of those demons that are found 


And join with thee calm peace, and quiet — 


In fire, air, flood, or under ground. 



IL PENSEROSO. 



701 



Whose power hath a true consent 
With planet or with element. 
Sometime let gorgeous tragedy 
In sceptred pall come sweeping by, 
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line. 
Or the tale of Troy divine, 
Or what (though rare) of later age 
Ennobled hath the buskined stage. 

But, oh, sad virgin, that thy power 
Might raise Musaeus from his bower ! 
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
Such notes as, warbled to the string. 
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek. 
And made hell grant what love did seek ! 
Or call up him that left half-told 
The story of Cambusean bold — 
Of Camball, and of Algarsife — 
And who had Canace to wife. 
That owned the virtuous ring and glass — 
And of the wondrous horse of brass. 
On which the Tartar king did ride ! 
And, if aught else great bards beside 
In sage and solemn tunes have sung — 
Of tourneys and of trophies hung. 
Of forests, and enchantments drear. 
Where more is meant than meets the ear. 

Thus, night, oft see me in thy pale career, 
Till civil-suited morn appear — 
Not tricked and flounced, as she was wont 
With the Attic boy to hunt. 
But kerchiefed in a comely cloud 
While rocking winds are piping loud. 
Or ushered with a shower still 
When the gust hath blown his fill. 
Ending on the rustling leaves, 
With minute drops from off the eaves. 
And when the sun begins to fling 
His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring 
To arched walks of twilight groves. 
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves. 
Of pine or monumental oak, 
Wliere the rude axe with heaved stroke 
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt. 
Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. 
There in close covert by some brook. 
Where no profaner eye may look. 
Hide me from day's garish eye, 
While the bee with honeyed thigh. 



That at her flowery work doth sing. 

And the waters murmuring 

With such consort as they keep. 

Entice the dewy-feathered sleep ; 

And let some strange mysterious dream 

Wave at his wings, in airy stream 

Of lively portraiture displayed. 

Softly on my eyelids laid ; 

And, as 1 wake, sweet music breathe 

Above, about, or underneath. 

Sent by some spirit to mortals good. 

Or th' unseen genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 
To walk the studious cloisters pale. 
And love the high embowed roof. 
With antic pillars massy proof. 
And storied windows, richly dight, 
Casting a dim religious light. 
There let the pealing organ blow 
To the full-voiced quire below. 
In service high, and anthems clear. 
As may with sweetness, through mine ear 
Dissolve me into ecstasies. 
And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 

And may at last my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage. 
The hairy gown and mossy cell. 
Where I may sit and rightly spell 
Of every star that heaven doth show, 
And every herb that sips the dew, 
Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain. 

These pleasures, Melancholy, give, 
And I with thee will choose to live. 

John Milton. 



Song. 

Sweet are the thoughts that savor of content — 
The quiet mind is richer than a crown ; 

Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent — 
The poor estate scorns fortune's angry frown : 

Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such 
bliss. 

Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. 



702 POEMS OF SJENTUIENT AND REFLECTION. 


The homely house that harbors quiet rest, 


That can the great leviathan control. 


The cottage that affords no pride or care, 


Manage and rule it, as if he were its soul ; 


The mean that 'grees with country music best, 


The wisest king thus gifted was, 


The sweet consort of mirth and music's fare. 


And yet did not in these true wisdom place. 


Obscured life sets down a type of bliss : 


Who then is by the wise man meant ? 


A mind content both crown and kingdom is. 


He that can want all this, and yet can be content. 


Robert Greene. 


John Norris. 


Wc\z Keplg. 


% Qlontcnteb illinl>. 


Since you desire of me to know 


I WEIGH not fortune's frown or smile ; 


Who 's the wise man, I'll tell you who : 


I joy not much in earthly joys ; 


Not he whose rich and fertile mind 


I seek not state, I reck not style ; 


Is by the culture of the arts refined ; 


I am not fond of fancy's toys : 


Who has the chaos of disordered thought 


I rest so pleased with what I have 


By reason's light to form and method brought ; 


I wish no more, no more I crave. 


Who with a clear and piercing sight 




Can see through niceties as dark as night — 


I quake not at the thunder's crack ; 


You err if you think this is he, 


I tremble not at noise of war ; 


Though seated on the top of the Porphyrian tree. 


I swound not at the news of wrack ; 




I shrink not at the blazing star ; 


Nor is it he to whom kind Heaven 


I fear not loss, I hope not gain, 


A secret cabala has given 


I envy none, I none disdain. 


To unriddle the mysterious text 




Of nature, with dark comments more perplext — 


I see ambition never pleased ; 


Or to decipher her clean-writ and fair. 


I see some Tantals starved in store ; 


But most confounding, puzzling character — 


I see gold's dropsy seldom eased ; 


That can through all her windings trace 


I see even Midas gape for more ; 


This slippery wanderer and unveil her face, 


1 neither want, nor yet abound — 


Her inmost mechanism view. 


Enough 's a feast, content is crowned. 


Anatomize each part, and see her through and 
, through. 


I feign not friendship where I hate ; 


I fawn not on the great, in show ; 


Nor he that does the science know — 


I prize, I praise a mean estate — 


Our only certainty below — 


Neither too lofty nor too low : 


That can from problems dark and nice 


This, this is all my choice, my cheer — 


Deduce truths worthy of a sacrifice. 


A mind content, a conscience clear. 


Nor he that can confess the stars, and see 


JOSHTJA StLTESTER. 


What's writ in the black leaves of destiny — ' 




That knows their laws, and how the sun 




His daily and his annual stage does run, 


Song. 


As if he did to them dispense 




Their motions and their fate — supreme intelligence I 


What pleasure have great princes, 




More dainty to their choice 


Nor is it he (although he boast ' 


Than herdsmen wild, who, careless, 


Of wisdom, and seem wise to most,) 


In quiet life rejoice, , 


Yet 'tis not he whose busy pate 


And fortune's fate not fearing. 


Can dive into the deep intrigues of state — 


Sing sweet in summer morning ? 



THE 


LYE. 703 


Their dealings, plain and rightful, 


If potentates reply, 


Are void of all deceit ; 


Give potentates the lye. 


They never know how spiteful 




It is to feci and wait 


Tell men of high condition, 


On favorite presumptuous, 


That rule affairs of state, 


Whose pride is vain and sumptuous. 


Their purpose is ambition, 




Their practice only hate ; 


All days their flocks each tendeth ; 


And if they once reply, 


All night they take their rest — 


Then give them all the lye. 


More quiet than who sendeth 




His ship into the East, 


Tell them that brave it most 


Where gold and pearls are plenty, 


They beg for more by spending. 


But getting very dainty. 


Who in their greatest cost 




Seek nothing but commending ; 


For lawyers and their pleading. 


And if they make reply. 


They esteem it not a straw ; 


Spare not to give the lye. 


They think that honest meaning 




Is of itself a law ; 


Tell zeale it lacks devotion ; 


Where conscience judgeth plainly, 


Tell love it is but lust ; 


They spend no money vainly. 


Tell time it is but motion ; 
Tell flesh it is but dust ; 


Oh happy who thus liveth, 


And wish them not reply. 


Not caring much for gold. 


For thou must give the lye. 


With clothing which sufficeth 
To keep him from the cold ; 


Tell age it daily wasteth ; 
Tell honour how it alters ; 


Though poor and plain his diet. 
Yet merry it is and quiet. 

William Btbd. 


Tell beauty how she blasteth ; 
Tell favour how she falters ; 




And as they then reply. 




Give each of them the lye. 


a;i)e f ge. 


Tell wit how much it wrangles 




In tickle points of nicenesse ; 


GoE, soule, the bodie's guest, 


Tell wisedome she entangles 


Upon a thanklesse arrant ; 


Herselfe in over wisenesse ; 


Feare not to touche the best — 


And if they doe reply, 


The truth shall be thy warrant ; 


Straight give them both the lye. 


Goe, since I needs must dye. 




And give the world the lye. 


Tell physicke of her boldnesse ; 




Tell skill it is pretension ; 


Goe tell the court it glowes 


Tell charity of coldnesse ; 


And shines like rotten wood ; 


Tell law it is contention ; 


Goe tell the church it showes 


And as they yield reply. 


What's good, and doth no good ; 


So give them still the lye. 


If church and court reply. 




Then give them both the lye. 


Tell fortune of her blindnesse ; 




Tell nature of decay ; 


Tell potentates they live 


Tell friendship of unkindnesse ; 


Acting by others' actions — 


Tell Justice of delay; 


Not loved unlesse they give, 


And if they dare reply, 


Not strong but by thek factions ; 


Then give them all the lye. 



704 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Tell arts they have no soundnesse, 

But vary by esteeming ; 
Tell schooles they want profoundnesse, 
And stand too much on seeming ; 
If arts and schooles reply, 
Give arts and schooles the lye. 

Tell faith it 's fled the eitie ; 

Tell how the country erreth ; 
Tell, manhood shakes off pitie : 
Tell, vertue least pref erreth ; 
And if they doe reply, 
Spare not to give the lye. 

So, when thou hast, as I 

Commanded thee, done blabbing — 
Although to give the lye 
Deserves no less than stabbing — 
Yet stab at thee who will. 
No stab the soule can kill. 

Sir Walter Kaleigh. 



STc i\\& itaba ittargaut, Clountces of 
QlntnberloniJ. 

He that of such a height hath built his mind. 
And reared the dwelling of his thoughts so strong, 
As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame 
Of his resolved powers ; nor all the wind 
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong 
His settled peace, or to disturb the same ; 
What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may 
The boundless wastes and wilds of man sur- 
vey? 

And with how free an eye doth he look down 
Upon these lower regions of turmoil ? 
Where all the storms of passions mainly beat 
On flesh and blood, where honor, power, renown. 
Are only gay afflictions, golden toil ; 
Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet 
As frailty doth ; and only great doth seem 
To little minds, who do it so esteem. 

He looks upon the mightiest monarch's wars 

But only as on stately robberies ; 

Where evermore the fortune that prevails 



Must be the right ; the ill-succeeding Mars 
The fairest and the best faced enterprise. 
Great pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails ; 
Justice, he sees (as if seduced), still 
Conspires with power, whose cause must not be ill. 

He sees the face of right to appear as manifold 
As are the passions of uncertain man ; 
Who puts it in all colors, all attires, 
To serve his ends, and make his courses hold. 
He sees, that let deceit work what it can. 
Plot and contrive base ways to high desires : 
That the all-guiding providence doth yet 
All disappoint, and mocks the smoke of wit. 

Nor is he moved with aU the thunder-cracks 
Of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow 
Of power, that proudly sits on others' crimes ; 
Charged with more crying sins than those he 

checks. 
The storms of sad confusion, that may grow 
Up in the present for the coming times. 
Appall not him, that hath no side at all, 
But of himself, and knows the worst can fall. 

Although his heart (so near allied to earth) 
Cannot but pity the perplexed state 
Of troublous and distressed mortality. 
That thus make way unto the iigly birth 
Of their own sorrows, and do still beget 
Affliction upon imbecility ; 
Yet seeing thus the course of things must run, 
He looks thereon not strange, but as foredone. 

And whilst distraught ambition compasses 
And is encompassed ; whilst as craft deceives, 
And is deceived ; whilst man doth ransack man. 
And builds on blood, and rises by distress. 
And the inheritance of desolation leaves 
To great-expecting hopes ; he looks thereon, 
As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye, 
And bears no venture in impiety. 

Thus, madam, fares that man, that hath prepared 
A rest for his desires, and sees all things 
Beneath him ; and hath learned this book of man. 
Full of the notes of frailty ; and compared 
The best of glory with her sufferings ; 
By whom, I see, you labor all you can 



TO THE LADY MARGARET, COUNTESS OF CUMBERLAND. 



705 



To plant your heart; and set your thoughts as 

near 
His glorious mansion as your powers can bear. 

Which, madam, are so soundly fashioned 

By that clear judgment that hath carried you 

Beyond the feebler limits of your kind, 

As they can stand against the strongest head 

Passion can make ; inured to any hue 

The world can cast ; that cannot cast that mind 

Out of her form of goodness, that doth see 

Both what the best and worst of earth can be. 

Which makes that whatsoever here befalls. 
You in the region of yourself remain, 
Where no vain breath of th' impudent molests, 
That hath secured within the brazen walls 
Of a clear conscience, that (without all stain) 
Rises in peace, in innoeency rests ; 
Whilst all what malice from without procures, 
Shows her own ugly heart, but hurts not yours. 

And whereas none rejoice more in revenge. 
Than women used to do ; yet you well know. 
That wrong is better checked by being contemned. 
Than being pursued ; leaving to him to avenge 
To whom it appertains. Wherein you show 
How worthily your clearness hath condemned 
Base malediction, living in the dark, 
That at the rays of goodness still doth bark. 

Knowing the heart of man is set to be 
The centre of this world, about the which 
These revolutions of disturbances 
Still roll ; where all the aspects of misery 
Predominate ; whose strong effects are such 
As he must bear, being powerless to redress ; 
And that unless above himself he can 
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man ! 

And how turmoiled they are that level lie 

With earth, and cannot lift themselves from 

thence ; 
That never are at peace with their desires. 
But work beyond their years ; and even deny 
Dotage her rest, and hardly will dispense 
With death : that when ability expires. 
Desire lives still — so much delight they have 
To carry toil and travel to the grave. 
47 



Whose ends you see ; and what can be the best 
They reach unto, when they have cast the sum 
And reckonings of their glory % And you know. 
This floating life hath but this port of rest, 
A heart prepared, that fears no Ul to come ; 
And that man's greatness rests but in his show, 
The best of all whose days consumed are, 
Either in war, or peace conceiving war. 

This concord, madam, of a well-tuned mind, 

Hath been so set by that all-working hand 

Of Heaven, that through the world hath done his 

worst 
To put it out by discords most unkind, 
Yet doth it still in perfect union stand 
With God and man ; nor ever will be forced 
Prom that most sweet accord, but stiU agree. 
Equal in fortunes in equality. 

And this note, madam, of your worthiness 
Remains recorded in so many hearts, 
As time nor malice cannot wrong your right, 
In th' inheritance of fame you must possess : 
You that have built you by your great deserts 
(Out of small means) a far more exquisite 
And glorious dwelling for your honored name 
Than all the gold that leaden mines can frame. 

Samuel Daniel. 



ittg iHinie to iEle a Itingbom is. 

My minde to me a kingdom is ; 

Such perfect joy therein I finde 
As farre exceeds all earthly blisse 

That God or nature hath assignde ; 
Though much 1 want, that most would have, 
Yet still my minde forbids to crave. 

Content I live ; this is my stay — 
1 seek no more than may suflB.ce. 

I presse to beare no haughtie sway ; 
Look, what I lack my minde supplies. 

Loe, thus I triumph like a king, 

Content with that my minde doth bring. 

I see how plentie surfets oft. 
And hastie elymbers soonest fall; 

I see that such as sit aloft 
Mishap doth threaten most of all. 



706 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


These get with toile, and keepe with feare ; 


This is my choyce ; for why, I finde 


Such cares my minde could never beare. 


No wealth is like a quiet minde. 


No princely pompe nor wealthie store, 


My wealth is health and perfect ease ; 


No force to win the victorie, 


My conscience clere my chief defence ; 


No wylie wit to salve a sore, 


I never seeke by bribes to please. 


No shape to winne a lover's eye — 


Nor by desert to give oifence. 


1 J 

To none of these I yeeld as thrall ; 


Thus do I live, thus will I die ; 


For why, my minde despiseth all. 


Would all did so as well as I ! 




William Btbd. 


Some have too much, yet still they crave ; 




I little have, yet seek no more. 




They are but poore, though much they have; 


aiie tointer being CDocr. 


And I am rich with little store. 




They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give ; 


The winter being over, 


They lacke, I lend ; they pine, I live. 


In order comes the spring, 




Which doth green herbs discover. 


I laugh not at another's losse. 


And cause the birds to sing. 


I grudge not at another's gaine ; 


The night also expired, 


No worldly wave my minde can tosse ; 


Then comes the morning bright, 


I brooke that is another's bane. 


Which is so much desired 


I feare no foe, nor fawne on friend ; 


By all that love the light. 


I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. 


This may learn 




Them that mourn, 


I joy not in no earthly blisse ; 


To put their grief to flight ; 


I weigh not Croesus' wealth a straw ; 


The spring succeedeth winter, 


For care, I care not what it is ; 


And day must follow night. 


I feare not fortune's fatal law ; 


He therefore that sustaineth 


My minde is such as may not move 


Affliction or distress 


For beautie bright, or force of love. 


Which every member paineth. 




And findeth no release — 


I wish but what I have at will ; 


Let such therefore despair not. 


I wander not to seek for more ; 


But on firm hope depend. 


I like the plaine, I clime no hill ; 


Whose griefs immortal are not, 


In greatest stormes I sitte on shore. 


And therefore must have end, 


And laugh at them that toile in vaine 


They that faint 
With complaint 


To get what must be lost againe. 




Therefore are to blame ; 


I kisse not where I wish to kill ; 


They add to their afilictions, 


I feigne not love where most I hate ; 


And amplify the same. 


I breake no sleepe to winne my will ; 




I wayte not at the mightie's gate. 


For if they could with patience 


I seorne no poore, I feare no rich ; 


Awhile possess the mind, 


I feel no want, nor have too much. 


By inward consolations 




They might refreshing find, 


The court ne cart I like ne loath — 


To sweeten all their crosses 


Extreames are counted worst of all ; 


That little time they 'dure ; 


The golden meane betwixt them both 


So might they gain by losses. 


Doth surest sit, and feares no fall ; 


And sharp would sweet procure. 



A SWEET PASTORAL. 707 


But if the mind 


Into some other fashion doth it range ; 


Be inclined 


Thus goes the floating world beneath the moon ; 


To unquietness, 


Wherefore, my mind, above time, motion, place, 


That only may be called 


Rise up, and steps unknown to nature trace. 


The worst of all distress. 




He that is melancholy, 


A GOOD that never satisfies the mind, 


Detesting all delight, 


A beauty fading like the April showers, 


His wits by sottish folly 


A sweet with floods of gall that runs combined. 


Are ruinated quite. 


A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours. 


Sad discontent and murmurs 


A honor that more fickle is than wind, 


To him are incident ; 


A glory at opinion's frown that lowers. 


Were he possessed of honors. 


A treasury which bankrupt time devours. 


He could not be content. 


A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind, 


Sparks of joy 


A vain delight our equals to command, 


Fly away ; 


A style of greatness in efPect a dream. 


Floods of care arise ; 


A swelling thought of holding sea and land. 


And all delightful motion 


A servile lot, decked with a pompous name : 


In the conception dies. 


Are the strange ends we toil for here below 




Till wisest death makes us our errors know. 


But those that are contented 


William Dbummond. 


However things do fall, 




Much anguish is prevented. 




And they soon freed from all. 
They finish all their labors 




% Smcet pastoral. 


With much felicity ; 


Good muse, rock me asleep 


Their joy in trouble savors 


With some sweet harmony ! 


Of perfect piety. 
Cheerfulness 


The weary eye is not to keep 


Doth express 


Thy wary company. 


A settled pious mind, 


Sweet love, begone a while ! 


Which is not prone to grudging. 


Thou know'st my heaviness ; 


Prom murmuring refined. 


Beauty is born but to beguile 


Ann Collins. 


My heart of happiness. 




See how my little flock. 




That loved to feed on high. 


Sonnets. 


Do headlong tumble down the rock. 




And in the valley die. 


Triumphing chariots, statues, crowns of bays. 




Sky-threatening arches, the rewards of worth ; 


The bushes and the trees. 


Books heavenly-wise in sweet harmonious lays, 


That were so fresh and green. 


Which men divine unto the world set forth ; 


Do all their dainty color lease, 


States which ambitious minds, in blood, do raise 


And not a leaf is seen. 


From frozen Tanais unto sun-burnt Gauge ; 




Gigantic frames held wonders rarely strange. 


Sweet Philomel, the bird 


Like spiders' webs, are made the sport of days. 


That hath the heavenly throat, 


Nothing is constant but in constant change. 


Doth now, alas ! not once afford 


What 's done still is undone, and when undone 


Recording of a note. 



708 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


The flowers have had a frost ; 


The acorn's cup, the rain-drop's are. 


Each herb hath lost her savor ; 


The swinging spider's silver line. 


And Phillida, the fair, hath lost 


The ruby of the drop of wine. 


The comfort of her favor. 


The shining pebble of the pond 




Thou inscribest with a bond. 


Now all these careful sights 


In thy momentary play, 


So kill me in conceit, 


Would bankrupt nature to repay. 


That how to hope upon delights 


• Ah, what avails it 


Is but a mere deceit. 


To hide or to shun 


And, therefore, my sweet muse, 


Whom the Infinite One 


Thou know'st what help is best ; 


Hath granted His throne I 


Do now thy heavenly cunning use 


The heaven high over 


To set my heart at rest. 


Is the deep's lover ; 




The sun and sea. 


And in a dream bewray 


Informed by thee, 


What fate shall be my friend — 


Before me run. 


Whether my life shall stUl decay, 


And draw me on. 


Or when my sorrow end. 


Yet fly me still, 


Nicholas Bbetok. 


As fate refuses 




To me the heart fate for me chooses. 




Is it that my opulent soul 


®be to ISeantg. 


Was mingled from the generous whole ; 
Sea-valleys and the deep of skies 


Who gave thee, beauty, 


Furnished several supplies ; 


The keys of this breast, 


And the sands whereof I'm made 


Too credulous lover 


Draw me to them, seU-betrayed ? 


Of blest and unblesf? 


I turn the proud portfolios 


Say, when in lapsed ages 


Which hold the grand designs 


Thee knew I of old? 


Of Salvator, of Guercino, 


Or what was the service 


And Piranesi's lines. 


For which I was sold ? 


I hear the lofty paeans 


When first my eyes saw thee 


Of the masters of the shell, 


I found me thy thrall. 


Who heard the starry music 


By magical drawings, 


And recount the numbers well ; 


Sweet tyrant of all ! 


Olympian bards who sung 


I drank at thy fountain 


Divine ideas below, 


False waters of thirst ; 


Which always find us young. 


Thou intimate stranger, 


And always keep us so. 


Thou latest and first ! 


Oft, in streets or humblest places. 


Thy dangerous glances 


I detect far-wandered graces. 


Make women of men ; 


Which, from Eden wide astray, 


New-bom, we are melting 


In lowly homes have lost their way. 


Into nature again. 






Thee gliding through the sea of form. 


Lavish, lavish promiser. 


Like the lightning through the storm, 


Nigh persuading gods to err ! 


Somewliat not to be possessed. 


G-uest of million painted forms. 


Somewhat not to be caressed. 


Which in turn thy glory warms ! 


No feet so fleet could ever find, 


The frailest leaf, the mossy bark. 


No perfect form could ever bind. 



HY3IN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY. 



709 



Thou eternal fugitive, 
Hovering over all that live, 
Quick and skilful to inspire 
Sweet, extravagant desire, 
Starry space and lily-bell 
Filling with thy roseate smell. 
Wilt not give the lips to taste 
Of the nectar which thou hast. 

All that 's good and great with thee 

Works in close conspiracy ; 

Thou hast bribed the dark and lonely 

To report thy features only. 

And the cold and purple morning, 

Itself with thoughts of thee adorning ; 

The leafy dell, the city mart, 

Equal trophies of thine art ; 

E'en the flowing azure air 

Thou hast touched for my despair ; 

And, if I languish into dreams, 

Again I meet the ardent beams. 

Queen of things ! I dare not die 

In being's deeps past ear and eye ; 

Lest there I find the same deceiver. 

And be the sport of fate forever. 

Dread power, but dear ! if God thou be. 

Unmake me quite, or give thyself to me. 

Ealph Waldo Emekson. 



^gmn to JfiiteUectiiai JBeanta. 

The awful shadow of some unseen power 
Floats, though unseen, among lis — visiting 
This various world with as inconstant wing 
As summer winds that creep from flower to flower ; 
Like moonbeams, that behind some piny mountain 
shower. 
It visits with inconstant glance 
Each human heart and countenance. 
Like hues and harmonies of evening. 
Like clouds in starlight widely spread, 
Like memory of music fled. 
Like aught that for its grace may be 
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery. 

Spirit of beauty, that dost consecrate 
With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon 
Of human thought or form, where art thou gone ? 



Why dost thou pass away and leave our state. 
This dim, vast vale of tears, vacant and deso- 
late? 
Ask why the sunlight not for ever 
Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain river ; 
Why aught should fail and fade that once is 
shown ; 
Why fear, and dream, and death, and birth 
Cast on the daylight of this earth 
Such gloom ; why man has such a scope 
For love and hate, despondency and hope. 

No voice from some sublimer world hath ever 
To sage or poet these responses given ; 
Therefore the names of demon, ghost, and 
heaven. 
Remain the records of their vain endeavor — 
Frail spells, whose uttered charm might not avail 
to sever 
From all we hear and all we see 
Doubt, chance, and mutability. 
Thy light alone, like mist o'er mountains driven. 
Or music by the night wind sent 
Through strings of some still instrument 
Or moonlight on a midnight stream. 
Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream. 

Love, hope, and self-esteem, like clouds depart 
And come, for some uncertain moments lent. 
Man were immortal and omnipotent 
Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art. 
Keep with thy glorious train firm state within his 
heart. 
Thou messenger of sympathies 
That wax and wane in lovers' eyes ! 
Thou that to human thought art nourishment. 
Like darkness to a dying flame ! 
Depart not as thy shadow came ! 
Depart not, lest the grave should be. 
Like life and fear, a dark reality. 

While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped 
Through many a listening chamber, cave, and 

ruin, 
And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing 
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead. 
1 called on poisonous names with which our youth 
is fed ; 



710 POEMS OF SENTniENT AND REFLECTION. 


I was not heard ; 1 saw them not. 


How shall ever one like me 


When musing deeply on the lot 


Win thee back again 1 


Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing 


With the joyous and the free 


All vital things that wake to bring 


Thou wilt scofE at pain. 


News of birds and blossoming, 


Spirit false ! thou hast forgot 


Sudden thy shadow fell on me — 


All but those who heed thee not. 


I shrieked, and clasped my hands in ecstasy ! 






As a lizard with the shade 


I vowed that I would dedicate my powers 


Of a trembling leaf, 


To thee and thine ; have I not kept the vow f 


Thou with sorrow art dismayed ; 


With beating heart and streaming eyes, even 


Even the signs of grief 


now 


Reproach thee, that thou art near, 


I call the phantoms of a thousand hours 


And reproach thou wilt not hear. 


Each from his voiceless grave. They have in vis- 




ioned bowers 


Let me set" my mournful ditty 


Of studious zeal or love's delight 


To a merry measure : 


Outwatched with me the envious night ; 


Thou wilt never come for pity, 


They know that never joy illumed my brow 


Thou wilt come for pleasure. 


Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst free 


Pity then will cut away 


This world from its dark slavery — 


Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. 


That thou, awful loveliness. 




Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot ex- 


I love all that thou lovest, 




Spirit of delight ! 


press. 


The fresh earth in new leaves drest, 


The day becomes more solemn and serene 


And the starry night ; 


When noon is past ; there is a harmony 


Autumn evening, and the mom 


In autumn, and a lustre in its sky. 


When the golden mists are born. 


Which through the summer is not heard nor 


I love snow, and all the forms 


seen, 


Of the radiant frost ; 


As if it could not be, as if it had not been ! 


I love waves and winds and streams, 


Thus let thy power, which like the truth 
Of nature on my passive youth 


Everything almost 
Which is Nature's, and may be 
Untainted by man's misery. 


Descended, to my onward life supply 
Its calm — to one who worships thee, 


And every form containing thee — 


I love tranquil solitude. 


Whom, spirit fair, thy spells did bind 


And such society 


To fear himself, and love all human kind. 


As is quiet, wise, and good ; 


Percy Btsshe Sheli^t. 


Between thee and me 




What difference ? but thou dost possess 




The things I seek, not love them less. 


Song. 


I love Love, though he has wings, 


Raeblt, rarely comest thou. 


And like light can flee, 


Spirit of delight ! 


But, above all other things, 


Wherefore hast thou left me now 


Spirit, I love thee : 


Many a day and night ? 


Thou art love and life ! oh come. 


Many a weary night and day 


Make once more my heart thy home ! 


'Tis since thou art fled away. 


Pekct Btsshb Shellbt. 



WOOD-NOTES. 711 




Supplied me necessary food ; 


tooob-Notes. 


For Nature ever faithful is 




To such as trust her faithfulness. 


As sunbeams stream through liberal space 


When the forest shall mislead me, 


And nothing jostle or displace. 

So waved the pine-tree through my thought, 


When the night and morning lie, 


And fanned the dreams it never bi-ought. 


When sea and land refuse to feed me. 




'TwiU be time enough to die ; 


"Whether is better, tlie gift or the donor'? 


Then wUl yet my mother yield 


Come to me," 


A pillow in her greenest field. 


Quoth the pine-tree, 


Nor the June flowers scorn to cover 


" I am the giver of honor. 


The clay of their departed lover. 


My garden is the cloven rock, 


Who liveth in the palace hall 


And my manure the snow ; 


Waneth fast and spendeth all. 


And drifting sand-heaps feed my stock. 


He goes to my savage haunts, 


In summer's scorching glow. 


With his chariot and his care ; 




My twilight realm he disenchants, 


" He is great who can live by me. 


And finds his prison there. 


The rough and bearded forester 




Is better than the lord ; 


" What prizes the town and the tower? 


God fills the scrip and canister, 


Only what the pine-tree yields ; 


Sin piles the loaded board. 


Sinew that subdued the fields ; 


The lord is the peasant that was, 


The wUd-eyed boy, who in the woods 


The peasant the lord that shall be ; 


Chants his hymn to hills and floods. 


The lord is hay, the peasant grass. 


Whom the city's poisoning spleen 


One diy, and one the living tree. 


Made not pale, or fat, or lean ; 


Who liveth by the ragged pine 


Whose iron arms, and iron mould, 


Foundeth a heroic line ; 


Know not fear, fatigue, or cold. 


It seemed the likeness of their own ; 


I give my rafters to his boat. 


They knew by secret sympathy 


My billets to his boiler's throat ; 


The public child of earth and sky. 


And I will swim the ancient sea, 


You ask," he said, " ' what guide 


To float my child to victory, 


Me through trackless thickets led, 


And grant to dwellers with the pine 


Through thick-stemmed woodlands rough and 


Dominion o'er the palm and vine. 


wide ? ' — 


Who leaves the pine-tree, leaves his friend, 


I found the water's bed. 


Unnerves his strength, invites his end. 


The water-courses were my guide ; 


Cut a bough from my parent stem. 


I travelled grateful by their side, 


And dip it in thy porcelain vase ; 


Or through their channel dry ; 


A little while each russet gem 


They led me through the thicket damp, 


WiU swell and rise with wonted grace ; 


Through brake and fern, the beaver's camp. 


But when it seeks enlarged supplies, 


Through beds of granite cut my road. 


The orphan of the forest dies. 


And their resistless friendship showed : 


Whoso walks in solitude, 


The falling waters led me. 


And inhabiteth the wood, 


The foodful waters fed me. 


Choosing light, wave, rock, and bird. 


And brought me to the lowest land. 


Before the money-loving herd. 


Unerring to the ocean-sand. 


Into that forester shall pass 


The moss upon the forest bark 


From these companions, power and grace ; 


Was pole-star when the night was dark ; 


Clean shall he be, without, within. 


The purple berries in the wood 


From the old adhering sin. 



712 ' POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


All ill dissolving in the light 


Of chemic matter, force, and form, 


Of his triumphant piercing sight. 


Of poles and powers, cold, wet, and warm : 


Not vain, sour, nor frivolous ; 


The rushing metamorphosis 


Not mad, athirst, nor garrulous ; 


Dissolving all that fixture is. 


Grave, chaste, contented, though retired. 


Melts things that be to things that seem. 


And of all other men desired. 


And solid nature to a dream. 


On him the light of star and moon 


Oh, listen to the undersong, — 


Shall fall with purer radiance down ; 


The ever old, the ever young ; 


AU constellations of the sky 


And, far within those cadent pauses, 


Shed their virtue through his eye. 


The chorus of the ancient Causes ! 


Him Nature giveth for defence 


Delights the dreadful Destiny 


His formidable innocence ; 


To fling his voice into the tree, 


The mountain sap, the shells, the sea, 


And shock thy weak ear with a note 


All spheres, all stones, his helpers be ; 


Breathed from the everlasting throat. 


He shall never be old ; 


In music he repeats the pang 


Nor his fate shall be foretold ; 


Whence the fail' flock of Nature sprang. 


He shall meet the speeding year, 


mortal ! thy ears are stones ; 


Without wailing, without fear ; 


These echoes are laden with tones 


He shall be happy in his love. 


Which only the pure can hear ; 


Like to like shall joyful prove ; 


Thou canst not catch what they recite 


He shall be happy whilst he wooes. 


Of Fate and Will, of Want and Right, 


Muse-born, a daughter of the Muse. 


Of man to come, of human life, 


But if with gold she bind her hair. 


Of Death, and Fortune, Growth, and Strife." 


And deck her breast with diamond. 




Take off thine eyes, thy heart forbear, 


Once again the pine-tree sung : — 


Thoiigh thou lie alone on the ground. 


" Speak not thy speech my boughs among ; 




Put off thy years, wash in the breeze ; 


" Heed the old oracles, 


My hours are peaceful centuries. 


Ponder my spells ; 


Talk no more with feeble tongue ; 


Song wakes in my pinnacles 


No more the fool of space and time, 


When the wind swells. 


Come weave with mine a nobler rhyme. 


Soundeth the prophetic wind, 


Only thy Americans 


The shadows shake on the rock behind. 


Can read thy line, can meet thy glance. 


And the countless leaves of the pine are 


But the runes that I rehearse 


strings 


Understands the universe ; 


Tuned to the lay the wood-god sings. 


The least breath my boughs which tossed 


Hearken ! Hearken ! 


Brings again the Pentecost, 


If thou wouldst know the mystic song 


To every soul resounding clear 


Chanted when the sphere was young. 


In a voice of solemn cheer, — 


Aloft, abroad, the pasan swells ; 


' Am I not thine ? Are not these thine ? ' 


wise man ! hear'st thou half it tells? 


And they reply, ' Forever mine ! ' 


wise man ! hear'st thou the least part? 


My branches speak Italian, 


'Tis the chronicle of art. 


English, German, Basque, Castilian, 


To the open ear it sings 


Mountain speech to Highlanders, 


Sweet the genesis of things. 


Ocean tongues to islanders. 


Of tendency through endless ages, , 


To Fin, and Lap, and swart Malay, 


Of star-dust, and star-pilgrimages. 


To each his bosom-secret say. 


Of rounded worlds, of space and time. 


Come learn with me the fatal song 


Of the old flood's subsiding slime, 


Which knits the world in music strong. 



WOOD-NOTES. 



713 



Come lift thine eyes to lofty rhymes, 

Of things with things, of times with times, 

Primal chimes of sun and shade, 

Of sound and echo, man and maid, 

The land reflected in the flood. 

Body with shadow still pursued. 

For Nature beats in perfect tune, 

And rounds with rhyme her every rune, 

Whether she work in land or sea. 

Or hide underground her alchemy. 

Thou canst not wave thy staff in air, 

Or dip thy paddle in the lake. 
But it carves the bow of beauty there, 

And the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake. 
The wood is wiser far than thou ; 
The wood and wave each other know. 
Not unrelated, unafiied. 
But to each thought and thing allied. 
Is perfect Nature's every part, 
Rooted in the mighty Heart. 
But thou, poor chUd ! unbound, unrhymed, 
■Whence camest thou, misplaced, mistimed ? 
Whence, thou orphan and defrauded f 
Is thy land peeled, thy realm marauded ? 
Who thee divorced, deceived, and left ? 
Thee of thy faith who hath bereft, 
And torn the ensigns from thy brow. 
And sunk the immortal eye so low f 
Thy cheek too white, thy form too slender. 
Thy gait too slow, thy habits tender 
For royal man ; — they thee confess 
An exile from the wilderness, — 
The hills where health with health agrees. 
And the wise soul expels disease. 
Hark ! in thy ear I will tell the sign 
By which thy hurt thou may'st divine. 
When thou shalt climb the mountain-cliff. 
Or see the wide shore from thy skiff, 
To thee the horizon shall express 
But emptiness on emptiness ; 
There lives no man of Nature's worth 
In the circle of the earth ; 
And to thine eye the vast skies fall, 
Dire and satirical, 

On clucking hens, and prating fools. 
On thieves, on drudges, and on dolls. 
And thou shalt say to the Most High, 
' Godhead ! all this astronomy, 
And fate, and practice, and invention, 



Strong art, and beautiful pretension, 
This radiant pomp of sun and star, 
Throes that were, and worlds that are. 
Behold ! were in vain and in vain ; — 
It cannot be, — I will look again; 
Surely now will the curtain rise. 
And earth's flt tenant me surprise ; 
But the curtain doth not rise. 
And Nature has miscarried wholly 
Into failure, into folly.' 

" Alas ! thine is the bankruptcy. 

Blessed Nature so to see. 

Come, lay thee in my soothing shade. 

And heal the hurts which sin has made. 

I see thee in the crowd alone ; 

I will be thy companion. 

Quit thy friends as the dead in doom. 

And build to them a final tomb ; 

Let the starred shade that nightly falls 

StUl celebrate their funerals, 

And the bell of beetle and of bee 

Knell their melodious memory. 

Behind thee leave thy merchandise, 

Thy churches, and thy charities ; 

And leave thy peacock wit behind ; 

Enough for thee the primal mind 

That flows in streams, that breathes in wind. 

Leave all thy pedant love apart ; 

God hid the whole world in thy heart. 

Love shuns the sage, the child it crowns, 

Gives all to them who all renounce. 

The rain comes when the wind calls ; 

The river knows the way to the sea ; 
Without a pilot it runs and falls. 

Blessing all lands with its charity ; 
The sea tosses and foams to find 
Its way up to the cloud and wind ; 
The shadow sits close to the flying ball ; 
The date fails not on the palm-tree tall ; 
And thou,— go burn thy wormy pages, — 
Shalt outsee seers, and outwit sages. 
Oft didst thou search the woods in vain 
To find what bird had piped the strain ; 
Seek not, and the little eremite 
Flies gajdy forth and sings in sight. 

" Hearken once more ! 
I will tell thee the mundane lore. 



714 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Older am I than thy numbers wot ; 


This vault which glows immense with light 


Change I may, but I pass not. 


Is the inn where he lodges for a night. 


Hitherto all things fast abide, 


What recks such Traveller if the bowers 


And anchored in the tempest ride. 


Which bloom and fade like meadow-flow- 


Trenchant time behooves to hurry 


ers 


All to yean and all to bury : 


A bunch of fragrant lilies be. 


All the forms are fugitive, 


Or the stars of etei-nity ? 


But the substances survive. 


Alike to him the better, the worse, — 


Ever fresh the broad creation. 


The glowing angel, the outcast corse. 


A divine improvisation. 


Thou meetest him by centuries, 


From the heart of God proceeds, 


And lo ! he passes like the breeze ; 


A single will, a million deeds. 


Thou seek'st in globe and galaxy, 


Once slept the world an egg of stone. 


He hides in pure transparency ; 


And pulse, and sound, and light was 


Thou ask'st in fountains and in fires, — 


none; 


He is the essence that inquires. 


And God said, 'Throb!' and there was 


He is the axis of the star, 


motion. 


He is the sparkle of the spar, 


And the vast mass became vast ocean. 


He is the heart of every creature, 


Onward and on, the eternal Pan, 


He is the meaning of each feature ; 


Who layeth the world's incessant plan, 


And his mind is the sky, 


Halteth never in one shape. 


Than all it holds more deep, more high." 


But forever doth escape. 


Ralph Waldo Emerson. 


Like wave or flame, into new forms 




Of gem, and air, of plants, and worms. 




I, that to-day am a pine. 




Yesterday was a bundle of grass. 


3xa\)ma. 


He is free and libertine. 


Pouring of his power the wine 


If the red slayer think he slays, 


To every age, to every race ; 


Or if the slain think he is slain. 


Unto every race and age 


They know not well the subtle ways 


He emptieth the beverage ; 
Unto each and unto all. 


I keep, and pass, and turn again. 


Maker and Original. 




The world is the ring of his spells. 


Far or forgot to me is near. 


And the play of his miracles. 


Shadow and sunshine are the same ; 


As he giveth to all to drink. 


The vanished gods to me appear. 


Thus or thus they are and think ; 


And one to me are shame and fame. 


He giveth little or giveth much. 




To make them several or such. 


They reckon ill who leave me out. 


With one drop sheds form and feature ; 


When me they fly I am the wings ; 


With the next a special nature ; 


I am the doubter and the doubt. 


The third adds heat's indulgent spark ; 


And I the hymn the Brahman sings. 


The fourth gives light which eats the dark ; 




Into the fifth himself he flings. 


The strong gods pine for my abode, 


And conscious Law is King of kings. 


And pine in vain the sacred seven ; 


As the bee through the garden ranges. 


But thou, meek lover of the good. 


From world to world the godhead changes ; 


Find me and turn thy back on heaven. 


As the sheep go feeding in the waste. 


Kalph Waldo Emerson. 


From form to form He maketh haste ; 





SWEET IS THE PLEASURE. 715 




Heart to heart was never known ; 


Srocct is tl)e |3lea0xtre. 


Mind with mind did never meet ; 




We are columns left alone 


Sweet is the pleasure 


Of a temple once complete. 


Itself cannot spoil ! 




Is not true leisure 


Like the stars that gem the sky, 


One with true toil ? 


Far apart though seeming near. 


Thou that wouldst taste it, 


In our light we scattered lie ; 


Still do thy best ; 


All is thus but starlight here. 


Use it, not waste it — 




Else 'tis no rest. 


What is social company 




But a babbling summer stream ? 


Wouldst behold beauty- 


What our wise philosophy 


Near thee ? all round ? 


But the glancing of a dream ? 


Only hath duty 




Such a sight found. 


Only when the sun of love 




Melts the scattered stars of thought. 


Rest is not quitting 


Only when we live above 


The busy career ; 


What the dim-eyed world hath taught. 


Rest is the fitting 




Of self to its sphere. 


Only when our souls are fed 




By the fount which gave them birth, 


'Tis the brook's motion. 


And by inspiration led 


Clear without strife, 


Which they never drew from earth. 


Fleeing to ocean 




After its life. 


We, like parted drops of rain, 


Deeper devotion 


Swelling till they meet and run. 


Nowhere hath knelt ; 


Shall be all absorbed again. 


Fuller emotion 


Melting, flowing into one. 


Heart never felt. 


Christopher Peakse Ckanch. 


'Tis loving and serving 




The highest and best ; 




'Tis onwards ! unswerving — 


^\\t STabks Sturnelr. 


And that is true rest. 




John Sullivan Dwisht. 


Up ! up, my friend ! and quit your books, 




Or surely you'll grow double ; 




Up ! up, my friend ! and clear your looks ! 


Qton^as. 


Why all this toil and trouble? 


Thought is deeper than all speech. 


The sun, above the mountain's head, 


Feeling deeper than all thought ; 


A freshening lustre mellow 


Souls to souls can never teach 


Through all the long green fields has spread. 


What unto themselves was taught. 


His first sweet evening yellow. 


We are spirits clad in veils ; 


Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife ; 


Man by man was never seen ; 


Come, hear the woodland linnet — 


All our deep communing fails 


How sweet his music ! on my life, 


To remove the shadowy screen. 


There 's more of wisdom in it ! 



716 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! 

He, too, is no mean preacher ; 
Come forth into the light of things — 

Let Nature be your teacher. 

She has a world of ready wealth. 
Our minds and hearts to bless, — 

Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 

One impulse from a vernal wood 

May teach you more of man, 
Of moral evil and of good. 

Than all the sages can. 

Sweet is the lore which nature brings ; 

Our meddling intellect 
Misshapes the beauteous forms of things — 

We murder to dissect. 

Enough of science and of art ; 

Close up those barren leaves ; 
Come forth, and bring with you a heart 

That watches and receives. 

William Wordswokth. 



8[l)c iTountain. 

A CONVERSATION. 

We talked with open heart, and tongue 

Affectionate and true — 
A pair of friends, though I was young. 

And Matthew seventy-two. 

We lay beneath a spreading oak, 

Beside a mossy seat ; 
And from the turf a fountain broke, 

And gurgled at our feet. 

" Now, Matthew ! " said I, " let us match 

This water's pleasant tune 
With some old border-song or catch. 

That suits a summer's noon ; 

" Or of the church clock and the chimes 
Sing here, beneath the shade. 

That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 
WTiich you last April made ! " 



In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 
The spring beneath the tree ; 

And thus the dear old man replied. 
The gray-haired man of glee : 

" No check, no stay, this streamlet fears. 

How merrily it goes ! 
'Twill murmur on a thousand years, 

And flow as now it flows. 

" And here, on this delightful day 

I cannot choose but think 
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 

Beside this fountain's brink. 

" My eyes are dim with childish tears. 

My heart is idly stirred ; 
For the same sound is in my ears 

Which in those days 1 heard. 

" Thus fares it still in our decay ; 

And yet the wiser mind 
Mourns less for what age takes away 

Than what it leaves behind. 

" The blackbird amid leafy trees, 

The lark above the hill. 
Let loose their carols when they please. 

Are quiet when they will. 

" With Nature never do they wage 

A foolish strife ; they see 
A happy youth, and their old age 

Is beautiful and free. 

" But we are prest by heavy laws : 

And often, glad no more. 
We wear a face of joy, because 

We have been glad of yore. 

" If there be one who need bemoan 

His kindred laid in earth. 
The household hearts that were his own. 

It is the man of mirth. 

"My days, my friend, are almost gone; 

My life has been approved, 
And many love me ; but by none 

Am I enough beloved ! " 



THE CROWDED STREET. 



717 



" Now both himself and me he wrongs, 

The man who thus complains ! 
I live and sing my idle songs 

Upon these happy plains ; 

" And, Matthew, for thy children dead, 

I'll be a son to thee ! " 
At this he grasped my hand, and said, 

" Alas ! that cannot be." 

We rose up from the fountain side ; 

And down the smooth descent 
Of the green sheep-track did we glide, 

And through the wood we went ; 

And, ei'e we came to Leonard's rock. 

He sang those witty rhymes 
About the crazy old church-clock, 

And the bewildered chimes. 

William; Wordsworth. 



Let me move slowly through the street, 
Filled with an ever-shifting train. 

Amid the sound of steps that beat . 
The murmuring walks like autumn rain. 

How fast the flitting figures come ! 

The mild, the fierce, the stony face — 
Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some 

Where secret tears have left their trace. 

They pass to toil, to strife, to rest — 
To halls in which the feast is spread — 

To chambers where the funeral guest 
In silence sits beside the dead. 

And some to happy homes repair, 
Where children, pressing cheek to cheek. 

With mute caresses shall declare 
The tenderness they cannot speak. 

And some, who walk in calmness here, 
Shall shudder as they reach the door 

Where one who made their dwelling dear, 
Its flower, its light, is seen no more. 



Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame. 
And dreams of greatness in thine eye ! 

Go'st thou to build an early name, 
Or early in the task to die % 

Keen son of trade, with eager brow ! 

Who is now fluttering in thy snare ? 
Thy golden fortunes, tower they now. 

Or melt the glittering spires in air ? 

Who of this crowd to-night shall tread 
The dance till daylight gleam again ? 

Who sorrow o'er ihe untimely dead f 
Who writhe in throes of mortal pain ? 

Some, famine-struck, shall think how long 
The cold, dark hours, how slow the light ; 

And some, who flaunt amid the throng. 
Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. 

Each where his tasks or pleasures call. 
They pass, and heed each other not. 

There is who heeds, who holds them all 
In His large love and boundless thought. 

These struggling tides of life, that seem 
In way\5'ard, aimless course to tend, 

Are eddies of the mighty stream 
That rolls to its appointed end. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



Good-bye, proud world ! I'm going home ; 

Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine. 
Long through thy weary crowds I roam ; 

A river-ark on the ocean-brine. 
Long I've been tossed like the driven foam ; 
But now, proud world ! I'm going home. 

Good-bye to flatteiy's fawning face ; 

To grandeur with his wise grimace ; 

To upstart wealth's averted eye ; 

To supple ofiice, low and high ; 

To crowded halls, to court and street ; 

To frozen hearts and hasting feet ; 

To those who go and those who come — 

Good-bye, proud world ! I'm going home. 



718 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


I am going to my own hearth-stone, 


Early or late, the falling rain 


Bosomed in yon green hills alone — 


Arrived in time to swell his graiii ; 


A secret nook in a pleasant land, 


Stream could not so perversely wind 


Whose groves the frolic fairies planned ; 


But corn of Guy's was there to grind ; 


Where arches green, the livelong day, 


The siroc found it on its way 


Echo the blackbird's roundelay, 


To speed his sails, to dry his hay ; 


And vulgar feet have never trod — 


And the world's sun seemed to rise 


A spot that is sacred to thought and God. 


To drudge all day for Guy the wise. 


Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home. 


In his rich nurseries timely skill 


I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome ; 


Strong crab with nobler blood did fill ; 


And when I am stretched beneath the pines 


The zephyr in his garden rolled 


Where the evening star so holy shines. 


Prom plum-trees vegetable gold ; 


I laugh at the lore and pride of man. 


And all the hours of the year 


At the sophist schools, and the learned clan ; 


With their own harvests honored were. 


For what are they all, in their high conceit, 


There was no frost but welcome came. 


When man in the bush with God may meet ? 


Nor freshet, nor midsummer flame. 


BALFH WAUJO FilffTlBSON. 


Belonged to wind and world the toil 




And venture, and to Guy the oil. 




Ralph WAiao Emerson. 


®«2. 




Mortal mixed of middle clay, 


^^t Sunken Citg. 


Attempered to the night and day. 




Interchangeable with things. 


Hark ! the faint bells of the sunken city 


Needs no amulets or rings. 


Peal once more their wonted evening chime ! 


Guy possessed the talisman 


Prom the deep abysses floats a ditty, 


That all things from him began ; 


Wild and wondrous, of the olden time. 


And as, of old, Polyerates 




Chained the sunshine and the breeze, 


Temples, towers, and domes of many stories 


So did Guy betimes discover 


There lie buried in an ocean grave — 


Fortune was his guard and lover — 


Undescried, save when their golden glories 


In strange junctures felt, with awe, 


Gleam, at sunset, through the lighted wave. 


His own symmetry with law ; 




So that no mixture could withstand 


And the mariner who had seen them glisten. 


The virtue of his lucky hand. 


In whose ears those magic bells do sound, 


He gold or jewel could not lose. 


Night by night bides there to watch and listen, 


Nor not receive his ample dues. 


Though death lurks behind each dark rock 


In the street, if he turned round. 


round. 


His eye the eye 'twas seeking found. 




It seemed his genius discreet 


So the bells of memory's wonder-city 


Worked on the maker's own receipt. 


Peal for me their old melodious chime ; 


And made each tide and element 


So my heart pours forth a changeful ditty. 


Stewards of stipend and of rent ; 


Sad and pleasant, from the bygone time. 


So that the common waters fell 




As costly wine into his well. • 


Domes, and towers, and castles, fancy-builded. 




There lie lost to daylight's garish beams — 


He had so sped his wise affairs 


There lie hidden, till unveiled and gilded. 


That he caught nature in his snares ; 


Glory-gilded, by my nightly dreams ! 



BACCHUS. 719 


And then hear I music sweet upknelling 


Wine which is already man, 


From many a well-known phantom band, 


Food which teach and reason can. 


And, through tears, can see my natural dwelling 




Far ofE in the spirit's luminous land ! 


Wine which music is, — 


WiLHELM Mueller. (German.) 


Music and wine are one, — 


Translation of James Clarence Manqan. 


That I, drinking this, 




Shall hear far chaos talk with me ; 




Kings unborn shall walk with me ; 




And the poor grass shall plot and plan 


33oal)ue. 


What it will do when it is man. 




Quickened so, will I unlock 


Bring me wine, but wine which never grew 


Every crypt of every rock. 


In the .belly of the grape. 




Or grew on vines whose tap-roots, reaching 


I thank the joyful juice 


through 


For all I know : 


Under the Andes to the Cape, 


Winds of remembering 


Suffered no savor of the earth to 'scape. 


Of the ancient being blow. 




And seeming-solid walls of use 


Let its grapes the morn salute 


Open and flow. 


From a nocturnal root. 




Which feels the acrid juice 


Pour, Bacchus ! the remembering wine ; 


Of Styx- and Erebus; 


Retrieve the loss of me and mine! 


And turns the woe of night, 


Vine for the vine be antidote. 


By its own craft, to a more rich delight. 


And the grapes requite the lote ! 




Haste to cure the old despair, — 


We buy ashes for bread. 


Reason in nature's lotus drenched, 


We buy diluted wine ; 


The memory of ages quenched, 


Give me of the true, — 


Give them again to shine ; 


Whose ample leaves and tendrils curled 


Let wine repair what this undid ; 


Among the silver hills of heaven. 


And where the infection slid. 


Draw everlasting dew ; 


A dazzling memory revive ; 


Wine of wine, 


Refresh the faded tints, 


Blood of the world, 


Recut the aged prints, 


Form of forms and mould of statures. 


And write my old adventures with the pen 


That I intoxicated, 


Which on the flrst day drew, 


And by the draught assimilated. 


Upon the tablets blue. 


May float at pleasure through all natures ; 


The dancing Pleiads and eternal men. 


The bird-language rightly spell, 


Ralph Waldo Emerson. 


And that which roses say so well. 




Wine that is shed 




Like the torrents of the sun 


SCem^Jcrance, or i\\z QUieap jpijssicion. 


Up the horizon walls. 




Or like the Atlantic streams, which run 


Go now ! and with some daring drug 


When the South Sea calls. 


Bait thy disease ; and, whilst they tug, 




Thou, to maintain their precious strife. 


Water and bread, 


Spend the dear treasures of thy life. 


Food which needs no transmuting, 


Go ! take physic — dote upon 


Eainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting 


Some big-named composition, 



730 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


The oraeulous doctor's mystic bills — 




Certain hard words made into pills ; 
And what at last shalt gain by these ? 


Smoking Spirituali^eb. 


Only a costlier disease. 


PART I. 


That which makes us have no need 




Of physic, that 's physic indeed. 


This Indian weed, now withered quite. 


Hark, hither, reader ! wilt thou see 


Though green at noon, cut down at night, 


Nature her old physician be ? 


Shows thy decay — 


Wilt see a man all his own wealth, 


All flesh is hay : 


His own music, his own health — 


Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 


A man whose sober soul can tell 




How to wear her garments well — 


The pipe, so lily-like and weak, 


Her garments that upon her sit 


Does thus thy mortal state bespeak; 


As garments should do, close and fit — 


Thou, art e'en such — 


A well-clothed soul that 's not oppressed 


Gone with a touch : 


Nor choked with what she should be dressed — 


Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 


A soul sheathed in a crystal shrine. 




Through which all her bright features shine ; 


And when the smoke ascends on high, 


As when a piece of wanton lawn. 


Then thou behold'st the vanity 


A thin aerial veil, is drawn 


Of worldly stuff — 


O'er beauty's face, seeming to hide, 


Gone with a puff : 


More sweetly shows the blushing bride — 


Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 


A soul whose intellectual beams 




No mists do mask, no lazy streams — 


And when the pipe grows foul within. 


A happy soul, that all the way 


Think on thy soul defiled with sin ; 


To heaven hath a summer's day ? 


For then the fire 


Wouldst see a man whose well-warmed blood 


It does require : 
Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 


Bathes him in a genuine flood? — 


A man whose tuned humors be 




A seat of rarest harmony ? 


And seest the ashes cast away, 
Then to thyself thou mayest say 
That to the dust 


Wouldst see blithe looks, fresh cheeks, beguile 
Age? Wouldst see December's smile? 


Wouldst see nests of new roses grow 


Heturn thou must : 


In a bed of reverend snow ? 


Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 


Warm thoughts, free spirits flattering 




Winter's self into a spring ? — 




In sum, wouldst see a man that can 


PART II. 


Live to be old, and still a man ? 




Whose latest and most leaden hours 


Was this small plant for thee cut down? 


Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers ; 


So was the plant of great renown, 


And when life's sweet fable ends, 


Which mercy sends 


Soul and body part like friends — 


For nobler ends : 


No quarrels, murmurs, no delay — 


Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 


A kiss, a sigh, and so away ? 




This rare one, reader, wouldst thou see ? 


Doth juice medicinal proceed 


Hark, hither ! and thyself be he. 


From such a naughty foreign weed ? 


KiCHAKD CbASHAW. 


Then what 's the power 




Of Jesse's flower? 




Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 



THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 



721 



The promise, like the pipe, inlays, 
And by the mouth of faith conveys 

What virtue flows 

From Sharon's rose : 
Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 

In vain the unlighted pipe you blow — 
Youi' pains in outward means are so. 

Tin heavenly fire 

Your heart inspire : 
Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 

Tlie smoke like burning incense towers ; 
So should a praying heart of yours 
"With ardent cries 
Surmount the skies : 
Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 

Anonymous. 



Qri)e t)anit2 of i^uman toisl)C0. 

IN IMITATION OF THE TENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL. 

Let observation, with extensive view. 
Survey mankind from China to Peru ; 
Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife. 
And watch the busy scenes of crowded life : 
Then say how hope and fear, desire and hate, 
O'erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate, 
"Where wavering man, betrayed by venturous pride 
To chase the dreary paths without a guide. 
As treacherous phantoms in the mist delude. 
Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good ; 
How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice, 
Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant voice ; 
How nations sink, by darling schemes oppressed. 
When vengeance listens to the fool's request. 
Fate wings with every wish the afflictive dart, 
Each gift of nature and each grace of art ; 
With fatal heat impetuous courage glows. 
With fatal sweetness elocution flows. 
Impeachment stops the speaker's powerful breath, 
And restless fire precipitates on death. 

But, scarce observed, the knowing and the bold 
Fall in the general massacre of gold ; 
Wide wasting pest ! that rages unconfined 
And crowds with crimes the records of mankind ; 



For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws, 
For gold the hireling judge distorts the laws ; 
Wealth heaped on wealth, nor truth nor safety buys, 
The dangers gather as the treasures rise. 

Let history tell where rival kings command. 
And dubious title shakes the madded land, 
When statutes glean the refuse of the sword, 
How much more safe the vassal than the lord ; 
Low skulks the hind below the rage of power. 
And leaves the wealthy traitor in the Tower; 
Untouched his cottage, and his slumbers sound. 
Though confiscation's vultures hover round. 

The needy traveller, serene and gay. 
Walks the wild heath, and sings his toil away. 
Does envj' seize thee f crush the upbraiding joy. 
Increase his riches, and his peace destroy : 
Now fears in dire vicissitude invade, 
The rustling brake alarms, and quivering shade. 
Nor light nor darkness brings his pain relief. 
One shows the plunder and one hides the thief. 

Yet still one general cry the skies assails. 
And gain and grandeur load the tainted gales ; 
Few know the toiling statesman's fear or care, 
The insidious rival and the gaping heir. 

Once more, Democritus, arise on earth, 
With cheerful wisdom and instructive mirth ; 
See motley life in modern trappings dressed. 
And feed with varied fools the eternal jest : 
Thou who couldst laugh, where want enchained 

caprice. 
Toil crushed conceit, and man was of a piece ; 
Where wealth unloved without a mourner died. 
And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride ; 
Where ne'er was known the form of mock debate. 
Or seen a new-made mayor's unwieldy state ; 
"Wliere change of favorites made no change of 

laws. 
And senates heard before they judged a cause ; 
How wouldst thou shake at Britain's modish tribe. 
Dart the quick taunt and edge the piercing gibe ? 
Attentive truth and nature to descry. 
And pierce each scene with philosophic eye. 
To thee were solemn toys, or empty show. 
The robes of pleasure, and the veils of woe : 
All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain. 
Whose joys are causeless, or whose griefs are vain. 



722 



POEMS OF SENTUIUNT AND REFLECTION. 



Such was the scorn that filled the sage's mind, 
Renewed at every glance on human kind ; 
How just that scorn ere yet thy voice declare, 
Search every state, and canvass every prayer. 

Unnumbered suppliants crowd preferment's gate, 
Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great ; 
Delusive fortune hears the incessant call. 
They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall. 
On every stage the foes of peace attend, 
Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks their end. 
Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman's door 
Pours in the mourning worshipper no more; 
For growing names the weekly scribbler lies. 
To growing wealth the dedicator flies ; 
From every room descends the painted face 
That hung the bright palladium of the place. 
And, smoked in kitchens, or in auctions sold. 
To better features yields the frame of gold ; 
For now no more we trace in every line 
Heroic worth, benevolence divine ; 
The form distorted justifies the fall. 
And detestation rids the indignant wall. 

But will not Britain hear the last appeal. 
Sign her foes' doom, or guard the favorite's zeal ? 
Through freedom's sons no more remonstrance 

rings. 
Degrading nobles and controlling kings ; 
Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats, 
And ask no questions but the price of votes ; 
With weekly libels and septennial ale, 
Their wish is full to riot and to rail. 

In full-flown dignity see Wolsey stand, 
Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand ; 
To him the church, the realm, their powers con- 
sign. 
Through him the rays of regal bounty shine. 
Turned by his nod the stream of honor flows, 
His smile alone security bestows ; 
Still to new heights his restless wishes tower, 
Claim leads to claim, and power advances power ; 
Till conquest unresisted ceased to please, 
And rights submitted left him none to seize ; 
At length his sovereign frowns — thS train of state 
Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate ; 
Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's eye. 
His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly ; 



Now drops at once the pride of awful state. 
The golden canopy, the glittering plate, 
The regal palace, the luxurious board, 
The liveried army, and the menial lord ; 
With age, with cares, with maladies oppressed, 
He seeks the refuge of monastic rest ; 
Grief aids disease, remembered folly stings, 
And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. 

Speak, thou whose thoughts at humble peace re- 
pine. 
Shall Wolsey's wealth with Wolsey's end be thine ? 
Or liv'st thou now, with safer pride content, 
The wisest justice on the banks of Trent ? 
For why did Wolsey, near the steeps of fate, 
On weak foundations raise the enormous weight 1 
Why but to sink beneath misfortune's blow, 
With louder ruin to the gulfs below ? 

What gave greatVilliers to the assassin's knife. 
And fixed disease on Harley's closing life ? 
What murdered Wentworth, and what exQed Hyde ; 
By kings protected, and to kings allied f 
What but their wish indulged in courts to shine, 
And power too great to keep or to resign ? 

When first the college rolls receive his name. 
The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame ; 
Resistless burns the fever of renown, 
Caught from the strong contagion of the gown ; 
O'er Bodley's dome his future labors spread. 
And Bacon's mansion trembles o'er his head. 
Are these thy views ? Proceed, illustrious youth. 
And virtue guard thee to the throne of truth ! 
Yet should thy soul indulge the generous heat 
Till captive science yields her last retreat ; 
Should reason guide thee with her brightest ray, 
And pour on misty doubt resistless day ; 
Should no false kindness lure to loose delight. 
Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright ; 
Should tempting novelty thy cell refrain. 
And sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain ; 
Should beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart, 
Nor claim the triumph of a lettered heart ; 
Should no disease the torpid veins invade. 
Nor melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade ; 
Yet hope not life from grief or danger free, 
Nor think the doom of man reversed for thee. 



THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 



733 



Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, 
And pause awhile from letters to be wise ; 
There mark what ills the scholar's life assail, 
Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail. 
See nations, slowly wise and meanly just, 
To buried merit raise the tardy bust. 
If dreams yet flatter, yet again attend, 
Hear Lydiat's life, and Galileo's end. 

Nor deem, when learning her last prize bestows, 
The glittering eminence exempt from foes ; 
See, when the vulgar 'scapes, despised or awed. 
Rebellion's vengeful talons seize on Laiid. 
From meaner minds though smaller fines content. 
The plundered palace or sequestered rent, 
Marked out by dangerous parts, he meets the 

shock. 
And fatal learning leads him to the block ; 
Around his tomb let art and genius weep. 
But hear his death, ye blockheads, hear and sleep. 

The festal blazes, the triumphant show. 
The ravished standard, and the captive foe. 
The senate's thanks, the gazette's pompous tale. 
With force resistless o'er the brave prevail. 
Such bribes the rapid Greek o'er Asia whirled. 
For such the steady Roman shook the world ; 
For such in distant lands the Britons shine. 
And stain with blood the Danube or the Rhine ; 
This power has praise, that virtue scarce can 

warm 
Till fame supplies the universal charm. 
Yet reason frowns on war's unequal game. 
Where wasted nations raise a single name ; 
And mortgaged states their grandsire's wreaths 

regret. 
From age to age in everlasting debt ; 
Wreaths which at last the dear-bought right con- 
vey 
To rust on medals, or on stones decay. 

On what foundation stands the warrior's pride. 
How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide : 
A frame of adamant, a soul of fire. 
No dangers fright him, and no labors tire ; 
O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 
Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain ; 
No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, 
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field ; 



Behold surrounding kings their powers combine. 

And one capitulate, and one resign : 

Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in 
vain; 

" Think nothing gained," he cries, " till naught 
remain. 

On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly. 

And all be mine beneath the polar sky ! " 

The march begins in military state. 

And nations on his eye suspended wait ; 

Stem famine guards the solitary coast, 

And winter barricades the realms of frost ; 

He comes, nor want nor cold his course de- 
lay;— 

Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day : 

The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands, 

And shows his miseries in distant lands; 

Condemned a needy suppliant to wait. 

While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. 

But did not chance at length her error mend ? 

Did no subverted empire mark his end ? 

Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound ? 

Or hostile millions press him to the ground ? 

His fall was destined to a barren strand, 

A petty fortress, and a dubious hand ; 

He left the name, at which the world grew 
pale. 

To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 

All times their scenes of pompous woes afford. 
From Persia's tyrant to Bavaria's lord. 
In gay hostility and barbarous pride. 
With half mankind embattled at his side. 
Great Xerxes comes to seize the certain prey. 
And starves exhausted regions in his way ; 
Attendant flattery counts his myriads o'er. 
Till counted myriads soothe his pride no more ; 
Fresh praise is tried till madness fires his mind. 
The waves he lashes, and enchains the wind. 
New powers he claims, new powers are still be- 
stowed. 
Till rude resistance lops the spreading god. 
The daring Greeks deride the martial show. 
And heap their valleys with the gaudy foe ; 
The insulted sea with humbler thought he gains, 
A single skiff to speed his flight remains ; 
The encumbered oar scarce leaves the dreaded 

coast 
Through purple billows and a floating host. 



734 



P0E3IS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



The bold Bavarian, in a lucldess hour, 
Tries the dread summits of Caesarean power, 
With unexpected legions bursts away. 
And sees defenceless realms receive his sway ; 
Short sway ! fair Austria spreads her mournful 

charms, 
The queen, the beauty, sets the world in arms ; 
From hill to hill the beacon's rousing blaze 
Spreads wide the hope of plunder and of praise ; 
The fierce Croatian and the wild Hussar, 
With all the sons of ravage crowd the war ; 
The bafled prince, in honor's flattering bloom 
Of hasty greatness, finds the fatal doom. 
His foes' derision, and his subjects' blame. 
And steals to death from anguish and from shame. 

" Enlarge my life with multitude of days ! " 
In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays ; 
Hides from himself its state, and shuns to know 
That life protracted is protracted woe. 
Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy, 
And shuts up all the passages of joy. 
In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour, 
The fruit autumnal and the vernal flower ; 
With listless eyes the dotard views the store, 
He views, and wonders that they please no more ; 
Now pall the tasteless meats, and joyless wines. 
And luxury with sighs her slave resigns. 
Approach, ye minstrels, try the soothing strain, 
DifEuse the tuneful lenitives of pain ; 
No sounds, alas ! would touch the impervious ear. 
Though dancing mountains witnessed Orpheus 

near ; 
Nor lute nor lyre his feebler powers attend. 
Nor sweeter music of a virtuous friend ; 
But everlasting dictates crowd his tongue, 
Perversely grave, or positively wrong. 
The still returning tale and lingering jest 
Perplex the fawning niece and pampered guest. 
While growing hopes scarce awe the gathering 

sneer, 
And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear ; 
The watchful guests still hint the last offence ; 
The daughter's petulance, the son's expense ; 
Improve his heady rage with treacherous skill, 
And mould his passions till they makfe his will. 

Unnumbered maladies his joints invade, 
Lay siege to life, and press the dire blockade ; 



But unextinguished avarice still remains. 

And dreaded losses aggravate his pains ; 

He turns, with anxious heart and crippled 

hands. 
His bonds of debt, and mortgages of lands ; 
Or views his coffers with suspicious eyes. 
Unlocks his gold, and counts it till he dies. 

But grant, the virtues of a temperate prime 
Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime ; 
An age that melts with unperceived decay, 
And glides in modest innocence away ; 
Whose peaceful day benevolence endears, 
Whose night congratulating conscience cheers ; 
The general favorite as the general friend ; 
Such age there is, and who shall wish its end? 

Yet even on this her load misfortune flings, 
To press the weary minutes' flagging wings ; 
New sorrow rises as the day returns, 
A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns ; 
Now kindred merit fllls the sable bier, 
Now lacerated friendship claims a tear ; 
Year chases year, decay pursues decay. 
Still drops some joy from withering life away ; 
New forms arise, and different views engage, 
Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage, 
Till pitying nature signs the last release, 
And bids afflicted worth retii-e to peace. 

But few there are whom hours like these 
await. 
Who set unclouded in the gulfs of fate, 
From Lydia's monarch should the search de- 
scend. 
By Solon caationed to regard his end. 
In life's last scene what prodigies surprise. 
Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise : 
Prom Marlborough's eyes the streams of dotage 

flow, 
And Swift expires a driveller and a show ! 

The teeming mother, anxious for her race, 
Begs for each birth the fortune of a face ; 
Yet Vane could tell what ills from beauty 

spring ; 
And Sedley cursed the form that pleased a 

king. 



WITHOUT AND WITHIN. 



725 



Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes. 

Whom pleasure keeps too busy to be wise ; 

Whom joys with soft varieties invite, 

By day the frolic, and the dance by night ; 

Who frown with vanity, who smile with art, 

And ask the latest fashion of the heart ; 

What care, what rules, your heedless charms shall 

save. 
Each nymph your rival, and each youth your 

^ slave ? 
Against your fame with fondness hate combines, 
The rival batters, and the lover mines : 
With distant voice neglected virtue calls, 
Less heard and less, the faint remonstrance 

falls ; 
Tired with contempt, she quits the slippery 

reign. 
And pride and pindence take her seat in vain. 
In crowd at once, where none the pass defend. 
The harmless freedom, and the private friend ; 
The guardians yield, by force superior plied : 
To interest, prudence ; and to flattery, pride. 
Here beauty falls betrayed, despised, distressed, 
And hissing infamy proclaims the rest. 

Where then shall hope and fear their objects 

find? 
Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind ? 
Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, 
RoU darkling down the torrent of his fate ? 
Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise, 
!N"o cries invoke the mercies of the skies ? 
Inquirer, cease ; petitions yet remain 
Which Heaven may hear, nor deem religion 

vain. 
StUl raise for good the supplicating voice. 
But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice. 
Safe in His power whose eyes discern afar 
The secret ambush of a specious prayer, 
Implore His aid, in His decisions rest, 
Secure, whate'er He gives, He gives the best. 
Yet, when the sense of secret presence fires, 
And strong devotion to the skies aspires. 
Pour forth thy fervors for a healthful mind. 
Obedient passions, and a will resigned ; 
For love, which scarce collective man can fill ; 
For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill ; 
For faith, that, panting for a happier seat, 
Counts death kind nature's signal of retreat. 



These, goods for man the laws of heaven ordain ; 
These goods he grants, who grants the power to 

gain; 
With these celestial wisdom calms the mind, 
And makes the happiness she does not find. 

Sajiubl Johnson. 



toitliout ani> toitl)in. 

My coachman, in the moonlight there. 
Looks through the side-light of the door ; 

I hear him with his brethren swear, 
As I could do, — but only more. 

Flattening his nose against the pane, 

He envies me my brilliant lot, 
Breathes on his aching fists in vain, 

And dooms me to a place more hot. 

He sees me in to supper go, 

A silken wonder by my side. 
Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row 

Of flounces, for the door too wide. 

He thinks how happy is my arm 

'N"eath its white-gloved and jewelled load ; 
And wishes me some dreadful harm, 

Hearing the merry corks explode. 

MeanwhUe I inly curse the bore 
Of hunting still the same old coon, 

And envy him, outside the door. 
In golden quiets of the moon. 

The winter wind is not so cold 
As the bright smile he sees me win, 

Nor the host's oldest wine so old 
As our poor gabble sour and thin. 

I envy him the ungyved prance 
By which his freezing feet he warms, 

And drag my lady's chains, and dance 
The galley-slave of dreary forms. 

Oh, could he have my share of din, 
And I his qiiiet ! — past a doubt 

'Twould still be one man bored within. 
And just another bored without. 

James Russell Lowell. 



726 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


£a\i\t. 


Song. 


The mountain and the squirrel 


Down lay in a nook my lady's brach 


Had a quarrel ; 


And said, my feet are sore ; 


And the former called the latter " Little Prig ; " 


I cannot follow with the pack 


Bun replied, 


A-hunting of the boar. 


" You are doubtless very big ; 




But all sorts of things and weather 


And though the horn sounds never so clear. 


Must be taken in together, 


With the hounds in loud uproar. 


To make up a year 


Yet I must stop and lie down here, 


And a sphere. 


Because my feet are sore. 


And I think it no disgrace 




To occupy my place. 


The huntsman, when he heard the same, 


If I'm not so large as you, 


What answer did he give? 


You are not so small as I, 


The dog that 's lame is much to blame. 


And not half so spry. 


He is not fit to live. 


I'll not deny you make 


Henry Taylor. 


A very pretty squirrel-track ; 




Talents differ ; aU is well and wisely put ; 




If I cannot carry forests on my back, 




Neither can you crack a nut." 


?Bcicrtion : an ©be. 


Kalph Waldo Emerson. 


Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon, 




With the old moon in her arm. 




And I fear, I fear, my master dear I 




We shall have a deadly storm. 


fence all gou t)ain SJcIigljta. 


Ballad of Sir Patrick Spbnce. 


Hence all you vain delights. 


I. 


As short as are the nights 


Well ! if the bard was weather-wise, who made 


Wherein you spend your folly I 


The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, 


There 's naught in this life sweet, 


This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence 


If man were wise to see 't. 


Unroused by winds that ply a busier trade 


But only melancholy ; 


Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, 


Oh sweetest melancholy ! 


Or the dull sobbing draft that moans and rakes 


Welcome folded arms and fixed eyes, 


Upon the strings of the Eolian lute. 


A sigh that, piercing, mortifies, 


Which better far were mute. 


A look that 's fastened to the ground. 


For lo ! the new-moon, winter-bright. 


A tongue chained up without a sound ! 


And overspread with phantom light — 


Fountain heads and pathless gi-oves ; 


With swimming phantom light o'erspread, 


Places which pale passion loves ; 


But rimmed and circled by a silver thread ! 


Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 


I see the old moon in her lap, foretelling 


Are warmly housed, save bats and owls ; 


The coming on of rain and squally blast. 


A midnight bell, a parting groan — 


And oh ! that even now the gust were swelling, 


These are the sounds we feed upon ; 


And the slant night-shower driving loud and 


Then stretch our bones in a still gloonJy valley. 


fast! 


Nothing 's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. 


Those sounds, which oft have raised me whilst they 

-1 


Beaumont and Fletcher. 


awed, 




And sent my soul abroad. 






DEJECTION : AN ODE. 



727 



Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give — 
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and 
live. 



A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear — 
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, 
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, 
In word, or sigh, or tear — 

lady ! in this wan and heartless mood. 

To other thoughts by yonder throstle wooed. 

All this long eve, so balmy and serene. 
Have I been gazing on the western sky. 
And its peculiar tint of yellow green ; 
And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye ! 
And those tliin clouds above, in flakes and 

bars. 
That give away their motion to the stars — 
Those stars, that glide behind them or between. 
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen — 
Yon crescent moon, as fixed as if it grew 
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue : 

1 see them all so excellently fair — 

I see, not feel, how beautiful they are ! 

in. 

My genial spirits fail ; 

And what can these avaU 
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast ? 

It were a vain endeavor, 

Though I should gaze forever 
On that green light that lingers in the west ; 
I may not hope from outward forms to win 
The passion and the life whose fountains are within. 



lady ! we receive but what we give. 

And in our life alone does nature live ; 

Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud ; 

And would we aught behold of higher worth 
Than that inanimate cold world allowed 
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd — 

Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth 
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 

Enveloping the earth ; 
And from the soul itseU must there be sent 

A sweet and potent voice of its own birth. 
Of all sweet sounds the life and element ! 



V. 

pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me 
What this strong music in the soul may be — 
What, and wherein it doth exist — 
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist. 
This beautiful and beauty-making power. 

Joy, virtuous lady ! Joy that ne'er was given 
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour — 
Life, and life's eflluence, cloud at once and shower — 
Joy, lady, is the spirit and the power 
Which, wedding nature to us, gives in dower 

A new earth and new heaven. 
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud — 
Joy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous cloud — 

We in ourselves rejoice ! 
And thence flows all that charms our ear or 
sight — 
AR melodies the echoes of that voice, 
AU colors a suffusion from that light. 

TT. 

There was a time when, though my path was 
rough, 

This joy within me dallied with distress ; 
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 

Whence fancy made me dreams of happiness. 
For hope grew round me like the twining vine ; 
And fruits and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. 
But now afflictions bow me dovra to earth, 
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth ; 

But oh ! each visitation 
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth. 

My shaping spirit of imagination. 
For not to think of what I needs must feel, 

But to be still and patient, all I can ; 
And haply by abstruse research to steal 

From my own nature all the natural man — 

This was my sole resource, my only plan ; 
Till that which suits a part infects the whole, 
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. 



Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my 
mind — 

Reality's dark dream ! 
I turn from you, and listen to the wind. 
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream 



728 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Of agony, by torture lengthened out, 


To her may all things live, from pole to pole — 


That lute sent forth ! Thou wind, that ravest 


Their life the eddying of her living soul ! 


without ! 


simple spirit, guided from above ! 


Bare crag, or mountain-tarn, or blasted tree. 


Dear lady ! friend devoutest of my choice ! 


Or pine-grove whither woodman never elomb. 


Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice. 


Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, 


Samuel Tatlob Coleridge. 


Methinks were fitter instruments for thee. 




Mad lutanist ! who, in this month of showers. 




Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, 


£\avazxQ tDitl)out iTruit. 


Mak'st devils' yule, with worse than wintry song. 




The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among ! 


Prune thou thy words ; the thoughts control 


Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds ! 


That o'er thee swell and throng : 


Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy bold ! 


They will condense within thy soul, 


What tell'st thou now about ? 


And change to purpose strong. 


'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout. 
With groans of trampled men, with smarting 
wounds — 




But he who lets his feelings run 
In soft luxurious flow. 


At once they groan with pain, and shudder with 
the cold. 


Shrinks when hard service must be done, 
And faints at every woe. 


But hark ! there is a pause of deepest silence ! 


Faith's meanest deed more favor bears, 


And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd. 


Where hearts and wills are weighed, 


With groans, and tremulous shuddering — all is 


Than brightest transports, choicest prayers. 


over — 


Which bloom their hour, and fade. 


It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and 
loud; 

A tale of less affright. 


John Henry Newman. 




And tempered with delight. 


Sir Jtlormaftukc. 


As Otway's self had framed the tender lay : 




'Tis of a little child 


Sir Marmaduke was a hearty knight — 


Upon a lonesome wild — 


Good man ! old man ! 


Not far from home, but she hath lost her 


He 's painted standing bolt upright. 


way; 


With his hose rolled over his knee ; 


And now moans low in bitter grief and fear — 


His periwig 's as white as chalk. 


And now screams loud, and hopes to make her 


And on his fist he holds a hawk ; 


mother hear. 


And he looks like the head 




Of an ancient family. 


Tin. 


His dining-room was long and wide — 




Good man ! old man ! 


'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of 

sleep ; 
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep ! 


His spaniels lay by the fireside ; 


And in other parts, d'ye see. 
Cross-bows, tobacco-pipes, old hats, 
A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats ; 


Visit her, gentle sleep, with wings of healing ! 


And may this storm be but a mountain-birth ; 


And he looked like the head 


May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling. 


Of an ancient family. 


Silent as though they watched the sleeping 


earth ! • 


He never turned the poor from the gate — 1 


With light heart may she rise. 


Good man ! old man ! 


Gay fancy, cheerful eyes — 


But was always ready to break the pate 


Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice ! 


Of his country's enemy. 



TEE AGE OF WISDOM. 729 


What knight could do a better thing 


Forty times over let Michaelmas pass ; 


Than serve the poor, and fight for his king ? 


Grizzling hair the brain doth clear ; 


And so may every head 


Then you know a boy is an ass. 


Of an ancient family. 


Then you know the worth of a lass — 


Geokse Colman, the younger. 


Once you have come to forty year. 




Pledge me round ; I bid ye declare. 


Jf am £x\ax of ®xhtx5 ©rag. 


All good fellows whose beards are gray — 
Did not the fairest of the fair 




Common grow and wearisome ere 


I AM a friar of orders gray, 

And down in the valleys I take my way ; 


Ever a month was past away ? 


I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip — 
Good store of venison fills my scrip ; 
My long bead-roll I merrily chant ; 


The reddest lips that ever have kissed. 
The brightest eyes that ever have shone. 


Where'er I walk, no money I want ; 


May pray and whisper and we not list, 


And why I'm so plump the reason I tell — 


Or look away and never be missed — 


Who leads a good life is sure to live well. 


Ere yet ever a month is gone. 


What baron or squire. 




Or knight of the shire, 


Gillian 's dead ! God rest her bier — 


Lives half so well as a holy friar ! 


How I loved her twenty years syne I 




Marian 's married ; but I sit here, 


After supper, of heaven I dream. 


Alone and meriy at forty year. 


But that is a pullet and clouted cream ; 


Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 


Myself, by denial, I mortify — 


William Makepeace Thackebat. 


With a dainty bit of a warden pie ; 




I'm clothed in sackcloth for my sin — 




With old sack wine I'm lined within : 


banitas banitatum. 


A chirping cup is my matin song. 


And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding dong. 


. 


What baron or squire, 


How spake of old the Royal Seer ? 


Or knight of the shire, 


(His text is one I love to treat on.) 


Lives half so well as a holy friar ? 


This life of ours, he said, is sheer 


John O'EIeefe. 


Mataiotes mataioteton. 




student of this gilded book, 




Declare, while musing on its pages. 


@i;i)e ^ge of tOisboitt. 


If truer words were ever spoke 




By ancient or by modern sages? 


Ho ! pretty page, with the dimpled chin. 




That never has known the barber's shear. 


The various authors' names but note. 


AU your wish is woman to win ; 


French, Spanish, English, Russians, Ger- 


This is the way that boys begin — 


mans: 


Wait till you come to forty year. 


And in the volume polyglot 




Sure you may read a hundred sermons. 


Curly gold locks cover foolish brains ; 




Billing and cooing is all your cheer — 


What histories of life are here. 


Sighing, and singing of midnight strains, 


More wild than all romancers' stories ; 


Under Bonnybell's window-panes — 


Wliat wondrous transformations queer. 


Wait till you come to forty year. 


What homilies on human glories ! 



730 P0E3IS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


What theme for sorrow or for scorn ! 


Hark to the Preacher, preaching still ! 


What chronicle of Fate's surprises — 


He lifts his voice and cries his sermon, 


Of adverse fortune nobly borne, 


Here at St. Peter's of Cornhill, 


Of chances, changes, ruins, rises ! 


As yonder on the Mount of Hermon : 


Of thrones upset, and sceptres broke, 


For you and me to heart to take 


How strange a record here is written ! 


(0 dear beloved brother readers). 


Of honors, dealt as if in Joke ; 


To-day, as when the good King spake 


Of brave desert unkindly smitten. 


Beneath the solemn Syrian cedars. 




William Makepeace Thaokerat. 


How low men were, and how they rise ! 




How high they were, and how they tumble ! 




vanity of vanities ! 




laughable, pathetic jumble I 


In |)flce. 


Here between honest Janin's joke 


When you are dead some day, my dear, 


And his Turk Excellency's firman. 


Quite dead and underground. 


I write my name upon the book : 


Where you will never see or hear 


I write my name — and end my sermon. 


A summer sight or sound ; 




What shall become of you in death, 




When all our songs to you 


vanity of vanities ! 


Are silent as the bird whose breath 


How wayward the decrees of Fate are ; 


Has sung the summer through ? 


How very weak the very wise, 




How very small the very great are ! 


1 wonder will you ever wake. 




And with tired eyes again 


What mean these stale moralities. 


Live for your old life's little sake 


Sir Preacher, from your desk you mumble ? 


An age of joy or pain? 


Why rail against the great and wise, 


Shall some stern destiny control 


And tire us with your ceaseless grumble ? 


That perfect form, wherein 




I hardly see enough of soul 


Pray choose us out another text. 


To make your life a sin? 


man morose and narrow-minded ! 




Come, turn the page — I read the next. 


For we have heard, for all things bom 


And then the next, and still I find it. 


One harvest-day prepares 




Its golden garners for the corn, 


Read here how Wealth aside was thrust. 


And fire to burn the tares ; 


And Folly set in place exalted ; 


But who shall gather into sheaves, 


How princes footed in the dust. 


Or turn aside to blame 


While lackeys in the saddle vaulted. 


The poppy's puckered helpless leaves, 




Blown bells of scarlet flame ? 


Though thrice a thousand years are past. 




Since David's son, the sad and splendid. 


Ko hate so hard, no love so bold 


The weary King Eeclesiast, 


To seek your bliss or woe; 


Upon his awful tablets penned it, — 


You are too sweet for hell to hold, 




And heaven would tire you so. 


Methinks the text is never stale, , 


A little while your joy shall be. 


And life is every day renewing. 


And when you crave for rest, 


Fresh comments on the old, old tale 


The earth shall take you utterly 


Of Folly, Fortune, Glory, Ruin. 


Again into her breast. 



NOTHING UNDER THE SUN IS NEW. 



731 



And we will find a quiet place 

For your still sepulchre, 
And lay the flowers upon your face, 

Sweet as your kisses were ; 
And with hushed voices, void of mirth, 

Spread the light turf above. 
Soft as the sUk you loved on earth 

As much as you could love. 

Pew tears, but once, our eyes shall shed. 

Nor will we sigh at all, 
But come and look upon your bed 

When the warm sunlights fall. 
Upon tliat grave no tree of fruit 

Shall gi'ow, nor any grain ; 
Only one flower of shallow root. 

That wUl not spring again. 

A. E. EoPEs. 



Noticing nribex tl)e Sun is l^cxo. 

Nothing under the sun is new — 
The old was old in Solomon's day, 

The false was false and the true was true ; 
As the false and true will be alway. 

The Pharisee walks in the public place 
With his broad phylacteries displayed. 

And makes the prayers with a solemn face 
That a thousand years ago he made. 

The priest and the Levite still pass by, 
While the wounded wretch, on the other 
side, 

Appeals in vain with beseeching eye 
For the helping hand so coldly denied. 

Now Lazarus begs at Dives' gate 

For the crumbs that fall from his ample 
feast ; 
And never a fear of his future fate 

Disturbs the rich man's soul in the least. 

And Magdalen crouches in dumb despair, 
Alone at the foot of the altar-stone. 

And nobody heeds her lying there, 

Or hears her prayer in its anguished moan. 



So nothing under the sun is new — 
The old was old in Solomon's day ; 

But where are the workers, faithful and true. 
Who lifted the fallen along the way? 

Will the good Samaritan come no more ? 

Is the strength of the chosen weak and cold ? 
Are faith and hope and charity o'er ? 

Is it only love that dies when old ? 

Nay, love survives, and brave soiils live. 
And generous deeds are done by the few, 

WhUe the many accept what the martyrs give. 
And — nothing under the sun is new ! 

Marc E. Cook. 



®l)c ®ne ®raa §aiv. 

The wisest of the wise 
Listen to pretty lies. 

And love to hear them told ; 
Doubt not that Solomon 
Listened to many a one — 
Some in his youth, and more when he gi'ew old. 

1 never sat among 

The choir of wisdom's song. 

But pretty lies loved I 
As much as any king — 
When youth was on the wing. 
And (must it then be told?) when youth had quite 
gone by. 

Alas ! and I have not 
The pleasant hour forgot. 

When one pert lady said — 
" Landor ! I am quite 
Bewildered with affright ; 
I see (sit quiet now ! ) a white hair on your head ! " 

Another, more benign, 
Drew out that hair of mine, 
And in her own dark hair 
Pretended she had found 
That one, and twirled it round. 
Fair as she was, she never was so fair. 

Walter Savage Lanbok. 



733 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 




The mossy marbles rest 


©0 IJcrilla. 


On the lips that he has pressed 




In their bloom ; 


Ah, my Perilla ! dost thou grieve to see 


And the names he loved to hear 


Me, day by day, to steal away from thee ? 


Have been carved for many a year 


Age calls me hence, and my gray hairs bid 


On the tomb. 


come. 




And haste away to mine eternal home ; 


My grandmamma has said — 


'Twill not be long, Perilla, after this 


Poor old lady ! she is dead 


That I must give thee the supremest kiss. 


Long ago — 


Dead when I am, first cast in salt, and bring 


That he had a Roman nose, 


Part of the cream from that religious spring, 


And his cheek was like a rose 


With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet ; 


In the snow. 


That done, then wind me in that very sheet 




Which wrapped thy smooth limbs when thou didst 


But now his nose is thin. 


implore 


And it rests upon his chin 


The gods' protection, but the night before ; 


Like a staff ; 


Follow me weeping to my turf, and there 


And a crook is in his back, 


Let fall a primrose, and with it a tear. 


And a melancholy crack 


Then lastly, let some weekly strewings be 


In his laugh. 


Devoted to the memory of me ; 




Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep 


I know it is a sin 


Still in the cool and silent shades of sleep. 


For me to sit and grin 


KOBBBT HbBBICK. 


At him here. 




But the old three-cornered hat, 




And the breeches, and all that. 




Are so queer ! 


m)t Cast tzaf. 






And if I should live to be 


I SAW him once before. 


The last leaf upon the tree 


As he passed by the door ; 


In the spring. 


And again 


Let them smile, as I do now, 


The pavement-stones resound 


At the old forsaken bough 


As he totters o'er the ground 


Where I cling. 


With his cane. 






Oliver Wendell Holmes. 


They say that in his prime, 




Ere the pruning-knife of time 




Cut him down. 


CObc on Soiitulre. 


Not a better man was found 




By the crier on his round 


Happy the man whose wish and care 


Through the town. 


A few paternal acres bound. 




Content to breathe his native air 


But now he walks the streets. 


In his own ground : 


And he looks at all he meets 




So forlorn ; • 


Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread. 


And he shakes his feeble head. 


Whose fiocks supply him with attire ; 


That it seems as if he said. 


Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 


" They are gone." 


In winter fire : 



MEMORY. 



733 



Blest, who can unconcern'dly find 

Hours, days, and years slide soft away ; 
In health of body, peace of mind, 
Quiet by day : 

Sound sleep by night, study and ease, 

Together mixt, sweet recreation ; 
And innocence, which most does please. 
With meditation. 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ; 

Thus, unlamented, let me die. 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 

Alexajider Pope. 



The mother of the muses, we are taught, 

Is memory ; she has left me ; they remain. 

And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing 

About the summer days, my loves of old, 

"Alas ! alas ! " is all I can reply. 

Memoiy has left with me that name alone, 

Harmonious name, which other bards may sing. 

But her bright image in my darkest hour 

Comes back, in vain comes back, called or uncalled. 

Forgotten are the names of visitors 

Ready to press my hand but yesterday ; 

Forgotten are the names of earlier friends 

Wliose genial converse and glad countenance 

Are fresh as ever to mine ear and eye ; 

To these, when I have written, and besought 

Remembrance of me, the word " Dear " alone 

Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in vain. 

A blessing wert thou, Oblivion, 

If thy stream carried only weeds away, 

But vernal and autumnal flowers alike 

It hurries down to wither on the strand. 

Walter Savage Landor. 



tOritten at on JJnu at i^cnlcg. 

To thee, fair Freedom, I retire 

From flattery, cards, and dice, and din ; 
Nor art thou found in mansions higher 

Than the low cot or humble inn. 



'Tis here with boundless power I reign. 
And every health which I begin 

Converts dull port to bright champagne ; 
Such freedom crowns it at an inn. 

I fly from pomp, I fly from plate, 
I fly from falsehood's specious grin : 

Freedom I love, and form I hate. 
And choose my lodgings at an inn. 

Here, waiter ! take my sordid ore. 
Which lackeys else might hope to win ; 

It buys what courts have not in store, 
It buys me freedom at an inn. 

Whoe'er has traveled life's dull round, 
Where'er his stages may have been, 

May sigh to think he still has found 
The warmest welcome at an inn. 

WrLLiAM Shenstone. 



®n SoUtubc. 

Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good ! 

Hail, ye plebeian underwood ! 

Where the poetic bifds rejoice. 
And for their quiet nests and plenteous food. 

Pay with their grateful voice. 

Hail, the poor muse's richest manor-seat ! 
Ye country houses and retreat, 
Which all the happy gods so love. 

That for you oft they quit their bright and great 
Metropolis above. 

Here Nature does a house for me erect, 
Nature the wisest architect, 
Who those fond artists does despise 

That can the fair and living trees neglect, 
Yet the dead timber prize. 

Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying. 
Hear the soft winds above me flying 
With all their wanton boughs dispute, 

And the more tuneful birds to both replying, 
Nor be myself too mute. 



v/ 



734 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND BEFLEGTION. 



A silver stream shall roll his waters near, 

Gilt with the sunbeams here and there, 
On whose enamelled bank I'll walk. 

And see how prettily they smile, and hear 
How prettily they talk. 

Ah wretched, and too solitary he 

Who loves not his own company ! 
He'll feel the weight of 't many a day. 

Unless he call in sin or vanity 
To help to bear 't away. 

Solitude, first state of human-kind ! 

Which blest remained till man did find 
Even his own helper's company. 

As soon as two (alas ! ) together joined, 
The serpent made up three. 

The god himself, through countless ages thee 
His sole companion chose to be, 
Thee, sacred Solitude alone. 

Before the branchy head of number's tree 
Sprang from the trunk of one. 

Thou (though men think thine an unactive part) 
Dost break and tame th' unruly heart. 
Which else would know no settled pace. 

Making it more well managed by thy art 
With swiftness and with grace. 

Thou the faint beams of reason's scattered light. 
Dost like a burning-glass unite. 
Dost multiply the feeble heat. 

And fortify the strength, till thou dost bright 
And noble fires beget. 

Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks, I see 
The monster London laugh at me, 
I should at thee too, foolish city. 

If it were fit to laugh at misery. 
But thy estate I pity. 

Let but thy wicked men from out thee go, 
And all the fools that crowd thee so, 
Even thou who dost thy millions boast, 

A village less than Islington wilt grow, 
A solitude almost. 

Abraham Cowley. 



toaiting bg \\)t ®ate. 

Beside a massive gateway built up in years gone 
by, 

Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie. 
While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood 

and lea, 
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. 

The tree-tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's 

flight, 
A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the 

night ; 
I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow descant 

more. 
And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of 

day is o'er. 

Behold the portals open, and o'er the threshold, 

now. 
There steps a weary one with a pale and furrowed 

brow; 
His count of years is full, his allotted task is 

wrought ; 
He passes to his rest from a place that needs him 

not. 

In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the 

hour 
Of human strength and action, man's courage and 

his power. 
I muse while stiU the woodthrush sings down the 

golden day. 
And as I look down and listen the sadness wears 

away. 

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, 

throws 
A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully 

goes: 
A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her 

hair. 
Moves mournfully away from amidst the young 

and fair. 

Oh glory of our race that so suddenly decays ! 
Oh crimson flash of morning that darkens as we 
gaze! 



THE END OF THE PLAY. 



735 



Oh breath of summer blossoms that on the restless 

air 
Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies, "we know 

not where ! 

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and 

then withdrawn ; 
But still the sun shines round me; the evening 

bird sings on, 
And I again am soothed, and, beside the ancient 



In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and 
wait. 

Once more the gates are opened ; an infant group 

go out, 
The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the 

sprightly shout. 
Oh frail, frail tree of life, that upon the greensward 

strows 
Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind 

that blows ! 

So come from every region, so enter, side by 

side. 
The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men 

of pride. 
Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those 

pillars gray. 
And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the 

way. 

And some approach the threshold whose looks are 

blank with fear. 
And some whose temples brighten with joy in 

drawing near, 
As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious 

eye 
Of Him, the sinless teacher, who came for us to die. 

I mark the joy, the terror ; yet these, within my 
heart. 

Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to de- 
part ; 

And, in tlie sunshine streaming on quiet wood and 
lea, 

I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. 
William Cullbn Bryant. 



a;i}c (Eni of llic IJlas. 

The play is done — the curtain drops, 

Slow falling to the prompter's bell ; 
A moment yet the actor stops, 

And looks around, to say farewell. 
It is an irksome word and task ; 

And, when he 's laughed and said his say, 
He shows, as he removes the mask, 

A face that 's any thing but gay. 

One word, ere yet the evening ends — 

Let 's close it with a parting rhyme ; 
And pledge a hand to all young friends. 

As fits the merry Christmas-time ; 
On life's wide scene you, too, have parts. 

That fate ere long shall bid you play ; 
Good-night ! — with honest gentle hearts 

A kindly greeting go alway ! 

Good-night ! — I'd say the griefs, the joys. 

Just hinted in this mimic page. 
The triumphs and defeats of boys. 

Are but repeated in our age ; 
I'd say your woes were not less keen. 

Your hopes more vain, than those of men- 
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 

At forty-five played o'er again. 

I'd say we suffer and we strive 

Not less nor more as men than boys — 
With grizzled beards at forty-five. 

As erst at twelve in corduroys ; 
And if, in time of sacred youth. 

We learned at home to love and pray. 
Pray Heaven that early love and truth 

May never wholly pass away. 

And in the world, as in the school, 

I'd say how fate may change and shift — 
The prize be sometimes with the fool, 

The race not always to the swift ; 
The strong may yield, the good may fall. 

The great man be a vulgar clown. 
The knave be lifted over all, 

The kind cast pitilessly down. 

Who knows the inscrutable design ? 
Blessed be He who took and gave ! 



736 POEMS OF SENTUIENT AND REFLECTION. 


Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, 


As fits the holy Christmas birth. 


Be weeping at her darling's grave ? 


Be this, good friends, our carol still — 


We bow to Heaven that willed it so, 


Be peace on earth, be peace on earth. 


That darkly rules the fate of all, 


To men of gentle will. 


That sends the respite or the blow, 


WiLiiiAM Makepeace Thackeray. 


That 's free to give or to recall. 




This crowns his feast with wine and wit — 


SCitne's Cure. 


Who brought him to that mirth and state ? 


His betters, see, below him sit. 


Mourn, rejoicing heart ! 


Or hunger hopeless at the gate. 


The hours are flying ; 


Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel 


Each one some treasure takes, 


To spurn the rags of Lazarus ? 


Each one some blossom breaks, 


Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel. 


And leaves it dying ; 


Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. 


The chill, dark night draws near — 




The sun will soon depart, 


So each shall mourn, in life's advance, 


And leave thee sighing, 


Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed — 


Then mourn, rejoicing heart ! 


Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance. 


The hours are flying ! 


And longing passion unfulfilled. 




Amen ! — whatever fate be sent, 


Rejoice, grieving heart ! 


Pray God the heart may kindly glow, 


The hours fly fast — 


Although the head with cares be bent. 


With each some sorrow dies. 


And whitened with the winter snow. 


With each some shadow flies ; 




Until at last 




The red dawn in the east 


Come wealth or want, come good or ill, 
Let young and old accept their part. 

And bow before the awful will, 
And bear it with an honest heart. 


Bids weary night depart. 

And pain is past ; 
Rejoice, then, grieving heart ! 

The hours fly fast ! 


Who misses, or who wins the prize — 


Anontmotjs. 


Go, lose or conquer as you can ; 




But if you fail, or if you rise. 




Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 






^ IPetition to (Eime. 


A gentleman, or old or young ! 


Touch us gently, Time ! 


(Bear kindly with my humble lays ; ) 


Let us glide adown thy stream 


The sacred chorus first was sung 


Gently — as we sometimes glide 


Upon the first of Christmas days : 


Through a quiet dream. 
Humble voyagers are we. 


The shepherds heard it overhead — 


The joyful angels raised it then : 


Husband, wife, and children three — 


Glory to heaven on high, it said, 


(One is lost — an angel fled 


And peace on earth to gentle men ! 


To the azure overhead ! ) 


My song, save this, is little worth ; , 


Toiich us gently. Time ! 


I lay the weary pen aside. 


We've not proud nor soaring wings, 


And wish you health, and love, and mirth, 


Our ambition, our content. 


As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. 


Lies in simple things. 



THERE ARE GAINS FOR ALL OUR LOSSES. 



737 



Humble voyagers are we, 
O'er life's dim, unsounded sea, 
Seeking only some calm clime ; — 
Touch us gently, gentle Time ! 

Bakrt Cornwall. 



6ong. 

Time is a feathered thing, 
And whilst I praise 
The sparklings of thy looks, and call them rays. 

Takes wing — 
Leaving behind him, as he flies. 
An unperceived dimness in thine eyes. 

His minutes, whilst they are told. 
Do make us old ; 

And every sand of his fleet glass, 
Increasing age as it doth pass. 
Insensibly sows wrinkles here. 
Where flowers and roses did appear. 

Whilst we do speak, our fire 
Doth into ice expire ; 

Flames turn to frost ; 
And ere we can 

Know how our crow turns swan, 
Or how a sUver snow 
Springs there where jet did grow, 

Our fading spring is in dull winter lost. 

Anontmotjs. 



a;i)cu axz ®ains for oil our bosses. 

There are gains for all our losses — 
There are balms for all our pain ; 
But when youth, the dream, departs, 
It takes something from our hearts, 
And it never comes again. 

We are stronger and are better. 

Under manhood's sterner reign ; 
StiU. we feel that something sweet 
Followed youth, with flying feet, 
And will never come again. 
49 



Something beautiful has vanished, 

And we sigh for it in vain ; 
We behold it everywhere, 
On the earth, and in the air, 

But it never comes again. 

KicHAED Henry Stoddard. 



Sonnet. 

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going. 

Crumbling away beneath our very feet ; 
Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing 

In current unperceived, because so fleet ; 
Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing — • 

But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat ; 
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing — 

And still, oh still, their dying breath is sweet ; 
And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us 

Of that which made our childhood sweeter still ; 
And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us 

A nearer good to cure an older ill ; 
And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize 

them — 
Not for their sake, but His who grants them or 
denies them! 

AtTBRET DE VeRE. 



8[l)C Soul's ^Ilufiancc. 

I SAID to sorrow's awful storm, 

That beat against my breast. 
Rage on ! — thon m^y'st destroy this form, 

And lay it low at rest ; 
But stUl the spirit that now brooks 

Thy tempest, raging high, 
Undaunted on its fury looks, 

With steadfast eye. 

I said to penury's meagre train, 
. Come on ! your threats I brave ; 
My last poor life-drop you may drain. 

And crush me to the grave ; 
Yet still the spirit that endures 

Shall mock your force the while. 
And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours 

With bitter smile. 



738 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


I said to cold neglect and scorn, 


Whilst eyes that change ere night 


Pass on ! I heed you not ; 


Make glad the day, 


Ye may pursue me till my form 


Whilst yet the calm hours creep. 


And being are forgot ; 


Dream thou ! and from thy sleep 


Yet still the spirit which you see 


Then wake to weep. 


Undaunted by your wiles, 


Percy Btsshe Shellbt. 


Draws from its own nobility 




Its high-born smiles. 




I said to friendship's menaced blow. 


gtan^as. 


Strike deep ! my heart shall bear ; 


My life is like the summer rose 


Thou canst but add one bitter woe 


That opens to the morning sky. 


To those already there ; 


But, ere the shades of evening close, 


Yet still the spirit that sustains 


Is scattered on the ground — to die ! 


This last severe distress. 


Yet on the rose's humble bed 


Shall smile upon its keenest pains, 


The sweetest dews of night are shed, 


And scorn redress. 


As if she wept the waste to see — 




But none shall weep a tear for me ! 


I said to death's uplifted dart, 




Aim sure ! oh, why delay ? 


My life is like the autumn leaf 


Thou wilt not find a fearful heart — 


That trembles in the moon's pale ray ; 


A weak, reluctant prey ; 


Its hold is frail — its date is brief, 


For still the spirit, firm and free, 


Restless and soon to pass away ! 


Unrufiied by this last dismay, 


Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade. 


Wrapt in its own eternity, 


The parent tree will mourn its shade, 


Shall pass away. 


The winds bewail the leafless tree — 


Latinia Stoddard. 


But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 




My life is like the prints which feet 


ittutabilitg. 


Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; 


Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 


The flower that smiles to-day 


All trace will vanish from the sand ; 


To-morrow dies ; 


Yet, as if grieving to efface 


All that we wish to stay 


All vestige of the human race, 


Tempts, an,d then flies ; 


On that lone shore loud moans the sea — 


What is this world's delight ? 


But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 


Lightning that mocks the night. 


KiCHARD Henry Wilde. 


Brief even as bright. 




Virtue, how frail it is ! 


55'0 illorc. 


Friendship too rare ! 




Love, how it sells poor bliss 


My wind has turned to bitter north. 


For proud despair ! 


That was so soft a south before ; 


But we, though soon they fall, 


My sky, that shone so sunny bright. 


Survive their joy, and all 


With foggy gloom is clouded o'er ; 


Which ours we call. 


My gay green leaves are yellow-black 




Upon the dank autumnal floor ; 


Whilst skies are blue and bright, 


For love, departed once, comes back 


Whilst flowers are gay, 


No more again, no more. 



ODE TO DUTY. 



739 



A roofless ruin lies my home, 

For winds to blow and rains to pour ; 
One frosty night befell — and lo ! 

I find my summer days are o'er. 
The heart bereaved, of why and how 

Unknowing, knows that yet before 
It had what e'en to memory now 

Returns no more, no more. 

ARTHUK H0GH Clough. 



®be to SDnta. 

Stern daughter of the voice of God ! 

Duty ! if that name thou love 
Who art a light to guide, a rod 

To check the erring, and reprove — 
Thou, who art victory and law 
When empty terrors overawe ; 
From vain temptations dost set free. 
And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 

Be on them ; who, in love and truth. 
Where no misgiving is, rely 

Upon the genial sense of youth ; 
Glad hearts ! without reproach or blot, 
Who do thy work, and know it not ; ■ 
Long may the kindly impulse last ! 
But thou, if tJiey should totter, teach them to stand 
fast! 

Serene will be our days and bright, 

And happy will our nature be. 
When love is an unerring light. 

And joy its own security. 
And they a blissful course may hold 
Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 
Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
Yet find that other strength, according to their- 

need. 

I, loving freedom, and untried, 

No sport of every random gust, 
Yet being to myself a guide. 

Too blindly have reposed my trust ; 
And oft, when in my heart was heard 
Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 



Through no disturbance of my soul. 
Or strong compunction in me wrought, 

I supplicate for thy control. 
But in the quietness of thought ; 

Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 

I feel the weight of chance desires, 

My hopes no more must change their name, 
I long for a repose that ever is the same. 

Stern lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 

Nor know we any thing so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face ; 

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, 

And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are 
fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful power ! 

I call thee : I myself commend 
Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 

Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 
Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
The confidence of reason give ; 
And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live ! 
William Wordswokth. 



Song. 

Oh say not that my heart is cold 

To aught that once could warm it — 
That nature's form, so dear of old. 

No more has power to charm it ; 
Or that the ungenerous world can chill 

One glow of fond emotion 
For those who made it dearer still, 

And shared my wild devotion. 

Still oft those solemn scenes I view 

In rapt and dreamy sadness — 
Oft look on those who loved them too, 

With fancy's idle gladness ; 
Again I longed to view the light 

In nature's features glowing. 
Again to tread the mountain's height. 

And taste the soul's o'erflowing. 



740 



POEMS OF SENTUIENT AND REFLECTION. 



Stern duty rose, and, frowning, flung 

His leaden chain around me ; 
With iron look and sullen tongue 

He muttered as he bound me : 
" The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven. 

Unfit for toil the creature ; 
These for the free alone are given — 

But what have slaves with nature ? " 

Charles Wolfe. 



tl)l)a tl)us fionging? 

Why thus longing, thus for ever sighing. 
For the far-off, unattained, and dim. 

While the beautiful, all round thee lying. 
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn ? 

Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching. 
All thy restless yearnings it would stiU ; 

Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching 
Thine own sphere, though humble, fii'st to fill. 

Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee 
Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw — 

If no silken cord of love hath bound thee 
To some little world through weal and woe ; 

If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten — 
No fond voices answer to thine own ; 

If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten, 
By daily sympathy and gentle tone. 

Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses, 
Not by works that give thee world-renown. 

Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses. 
Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown ? 

Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely. 
Every day a rich reward will give ; 

Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only. 
And truly loving, thou canst truly live. 

Dost thou revel in the rosy morning. 
When all nature hails the lord of light. 

And his smile, the mountain-tops adorning, 
Kobes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright ? 



Other hands may grasp the field and forest, 
Proud proprietors in pomp may shine ; 

But with fervent love if thou adorest, 

Thou art wealthier — all the world is thine. 

Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest. 
Sighing that they are not thine alone, 

Not those fair fields, but thyself, thou lovest, 
And their beauty and thy wealth are gone. 

Nature wears the color of the spirit ; 

Sweetly to her worshipper she sings ; 
All the glow, the grace she doth inherit. 

Round her trusting child she fondly flings. 
Harriet Winslow Sewall. 



£osscs. 

Upon the white sea-sand 

There sat a pilgrim band, 
Telling the losses that their lives had known : 

While evening waned away 

From breezy cliff and bay. 
And the strong tides went out with weary moan. 

One spake, with qiiivering lip. 

Of a fair freighted ship. 
With all his household to the deep gone down ; 

But one had wilder woe — 

For a fair face, long ago 
Lost in the darker depths of a great town. 

There were who mourned their youth 

With a most loving ruth, 
For its brave hopes and memories ever green ; 

And one upon the west 

Turned an eye that would not rest, 
For far-off hills whereon its joy had been. 

Some talked of vanished gold, 

Some of proud honors told. 
Some spake of friends that were their trust no more ; 

And one of a green grave 

Beside a foreign wave, 
That made him sit so lonely on the shore. 

But when their tales were done, 
There spake among them one. 



SFIWWJJ^G. 741 


A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free : 


But whether this be seal or sign 


" Sad losses have ye met, 


Within, without. 


But mine is heavier yet ; 


It matters not. The bond divine 


For a believing heart hath gone from me." 


I never doubt. 




I know he set me here, and still. 


" Alas ! " these pilgrims said, 


And glad, and blind, I wait his will ; 


" For the living and the dead — 




For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross, 


But listen, listen, day by day. 


For the wrecks of land and sea ! 


To hear their tread 


But, however it came to thee. 


Who bear the finished web away, 


Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest loss." 


And cut the thread. 


Fbajicbs Brown. 


And bring God's message in the sun. 




" Thou poor blind spinner, work is done." 




Helen Hitnt Jackson. 


Spinning. 




Like a blind spinner in the sun, 




Jr 7 

I tread my days ; 


^unian iTroiltg. 


I know that all the threads will run 


Weak and irresolute is man ; 


Appointed ways ; 


The purpose of to-day, " 


I know each day will bring its task, 


Woven with pains into his plan. 


And, being blind, no more I ask. 


To-morrow rends away. 


I do not know the use or name 




Of that I spin: 


The bow well bent, and smart the spring, 


I only know that some one came, 


Vice seems already slain ; 


And laid within 


But passion rudely snaps the string, 


My hand the thread, and said, " Since you 


And it revives again. 


Are blind, but one thing you can do.'' 






Some foe to his upright intent 


Sometimes the threads so rough and fast 


Finds out his weaker part ; 


And tangled fly, 


Virtue engages his assent. 


I know wild storms are sweeping past, 


But pleasure wins his heart. 


And fear that I 




Shall fall ; but dare not try to find 


'Tis here the folly of the wise 


A safer place, since I am blind. 


Through all his art we view ; 


I know not why, but I am sure 


And while his tongue the charge denies. 




His conscience owns it true. 


That tint and place. 




In some great fabric to endure 




Past time and race. 


Bound on a voyage of awful length 


My threads will have ; so from the first. 


And dangers little known. 


Though blind, I never felt accurst. 


A stranger to superior strength. 




Man vainly trusts his own. 


I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung 




From one short word 


But oars alone can ne'er prevail 


Said over me when I was young, — 


To reach the distant coast ; 


So young, I heard 


The breath of heaven must swell the sail. 


It, knowing not that God's name signed 


Or all the toil is lost. 


My brow, and sealed me his, though blind. 


William Cowper. 



742 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



^\\t ®oob (Sreot Man. 

How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits 
Honor and wealth, with all his worth and 
pains ! 
It seems a story from the world of spirits 
When any man obtains that which he merits, 
Or any merits that which he obtains. 

For shame, my friend ! renounce this idle strain ! 
What wouldst thou have a good great man ob- 
tain! 
Wealth, title, dignity, a golden chain, 
Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain °i 
Goodness and greatness are not means, but 
ends. 

Hath he not always treasures, always friends, 
The great good man f Three treasures — love, and 
light. 
And calm thoughts, equable as infant's breath ; 
And three fast friends, more sure than day or 
night — 
Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. 

Samuel Tatlok Coleridge. 



Sonnets. 

ON HIS BEING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY- 
THREE. 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, 

Stolen on his wing my three - and - twentieth 
year ! 

My hasting days fl.y on with full career, 
But my late spring no bud or blossom showeth. 
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth. 

That I to manhood am arrived so near ; 

And inward ripeness doth much less appear 
That some more timely-happy spirits indu'th. 
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, 

It shall be still in strictest measure even 

To that same lot, however mean or high, 
Toward which time leads me, and ,the will of 

Heaven : 
All is, if I have grace to use it so, 

As ever in my great task-master's eye. 



ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT. 

Avenge, Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones 

Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold ! 

Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, 
When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, 
Forget not ! in thy book record their groans 

Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold 

Slain by the bloody Picmontese, that rolled 
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans 
The vales redoiibled to the hills, and they 

To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow 
O'er all th' Italian fields, where still doth sway 

The triple tryant ; that from these may grow 
A hundred fold, who, having learned thy way, 

Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 

ON HIS BLINDNESS. 

When I consider how my light is spent 

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide. 
And that one talent which is death to hide 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest he returning chide — 
" Doth God exact day-labor, light denied f " 
I fondly ask ; but patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies : " God doth not need 
Either man's work, or his own gifts ; who best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best ; his state 
Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed. 
And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
They also serve who only stand and wait." 

TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY. 

Daughter to that good Earl, once President 
Of. England's Council, and her Treasury, 
Who lived in both, unstained with gold or fee, 

And left them both, more in himself content, 

Till sad the breaking of that Parliament 
Broke him, as that dishonest victory 
At Chajronea, fatal to liberty, 

Killed with report that old man eloquent ; 

Though later born than to have known the days 
Wherein your father flourished yet by you, 
Madam, methinks I see him living yet ; 

So well your words his noble virtues praise, 
That all both judge you to relate them true. 
And to possess them, honored Margaret. 

John Milton. 



OH! THE PLEASANT DAYS OF OLD! 



743 



©I)! X\)t fkosant tDags of (©lb! 

Oh ! the pleasant days of old, which so often peo- 
ple praise ! 

True, they wanted all the luxuries that grace our 
modern days : 

Bare floors were strewed with rushes — the walls 
let in the cold ; 

Oh ! how they must have shivered in those pleas- 
ant days of old ! 

Oh! those ancient lords of old, how magniflcent 

they were ! 
They threw down and imprisoned kings — to thwart 

them who might dare ? 
They niled their serfs right sternly ; they took from 

Jews their gold — 
Above both law and equity were those great lords 

of old! 

Oh ! the gallant knights of old, for their valor so 

renowned ! 
With sword and lance, and armor strong, they 

scoured the country round ; 
And whenever aught to tempt them they met by 

wood or wold, 
By right of sword they seized the prize — those 

gallant knights of old ! 

Oh ! the gentle dames of old ! who, quite free from 

fear or pain, 
Could gaze on joust and tournament, and see their 

champions slain ; 
They lived on good beefsteaks and ale, which made 

them strong and bold — 
Oh ! more like men than women were those gentle 

dames of old ! 

Oh ! those mighty towers of old ! with their tur- 
rets, moat, and keep, 

Their battlements and bastions, their dungeons 
dark and deep. 

Full many a baron held his court within the castle 
hold ; 

And many a captive languished there, in those 
strong towers of old. 



Oh ! the troubadours of old ! with their gentle 
minstrelsie 

Of hope and joy, or deep despair, whiche'er their 
lot might be — 

For years they served their ladye-love ere they 
their passions told — 

Oh ! wondrous patience must have had those trou- 
badours of old ! 

Oh ! those blessed times of old ! with their chivalry 

and state ; 
I love to read their chronicles, which such brave 

deeds relate ; 
I love to sing their ancient rhymes, to hear their 

legends told — 

But, Heaven be thanked ! I live not in those blessed 

times of old ! 

Frances Bkown. 



®l)« tol)itc Jfslanir; 

OR, PLACE OF THE BLEST. 

In this world, the isle of dreams, 
While we sit by sorrow's streams, 
Tears and terrors are our themes. 

Reciting ; 
But when once from hence we flie. 
More and more approaching nigh 
Unto young eternitie, 

Uniting 
In that whiter island, where 
Things are evermore sincere — 
Candor here and lustre there 

Delighting. 
There no monstrous fancies shall 
Out of hell an horror call, 
To create, or cause at all, 

Affrighting ; 
There in calm and cooling sleep 
We our eyes shall never steep, 
But eternal watch shall ke^p. 

Attending 
Pleasures, such as shall pursue 
Me immortalized, and you — 
And fresh joys, as never to 

Have ending. 

KOBEKT HeEBICK. 



744 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 




You see yon birkie ca'd a lord. 


^rroitmore. 


Wha struts, and stares, and a' that — 




Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 


Arranjioee, loved Arranraore, 


He 's but a coof for a' that ; 


flow oft I dream of thee ! 


For a' that, and a' that. 


And of those days when by thy shore 


His riband, star, and a' that ; 


I wandered young and free. 


The man of independent mind. 


Full many a path I've tried since then, 


He looks and laughs at a' that. 


Through pleasure's flowery maze, 




But ne'er could find the bliss again 


A prince can mak a belted knight, ' 


I felt in those sweet days. 


A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 


How blithe upon the breezy cliffs 


But an honest man 's aboon his might — 
Guid faith, he mauna fa' that ! 


At sunny morn I've stood. 






For a' that, and a' that 


With heart as bounding as the skiffs 

That danced along the flood ! 
Or when the western wave grew bright 


Their dignities, and a' that ; 


The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 
Are higher ranks than a' that. 


With daylight's parting wing, 




Have sought that Eden in its light 


Then let us pray that come it may. 


Which dreaming poets sing — 


As come it wiU for a' that. 


That Eden where th' immortal brave 


That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 


Dwell in a land serene — 


May bear the gree, and a' that, 


Whose bowers beyond the shining wave. 


For a' that, and a' that. 


At sunset, oft are seen ; 


It 's coming yet, for a' that — 


Ah dream, too full of saddening truth ! 


When man to man, the warld o'er. 


Those mansions o'er the main 


Shall brothers be for a' that. 


Are like the hopes I built in youth — 


KoBBET Burns. 


As sunny and as vain ! 




Thomas Moore. 






glontem^jlate all tljis tOork. 


f oncst |)ot)erta. 


Contemplate all this work of time. 




The giant laboring in his youth ; 


Is there for honest poverty 


Nor dream of human love and truth 


Wha hangs his head, and a' that ? 


As dying nature's earth and lime ; 


The coward-slave, we pass him by ; 


. 


We dare be poor for a' that. 


But trust that those we call the dead 


For a' that, and a' that. 


Are breathers of an ampler day 


Our toils obscure, and a' that ; 


For ever nobler ends. They say 


The rank is but the guinea's stamp — 


The solid earth whereon we tread 


The man 's the gowd for a' that. 






In tracts of fluent heat began. 


What tho' on hamely fare we dine, 


And grew to seeming random forms. 


Wear hodden grey, and a' that ; 


The seeming prey of cyclic storms. 


Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine — 


Till at the last arose the man — 


A man 's a man for a' that. 




For a' that,, and a' that, ' 


Who throve and branched from clime to clime. 


Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 


The herald of a higher race, 


The honest man, though e'er sae poor. 


And of himself in higher place. 


Is king o' men for a' that. 


If so he types this work of time 



IS IT COME? 



745 



Within himself, from more to more ; 
And crowned with attributes of woe 
Like glories, move his course, and show 

That life is not an idle ore. 

But iron dug from central gloom, 

And heated hot with burning fears. 
And dipped in baths of hissing tears, 

And battered with the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and fly 

The reeling faun, the sensual feast ! 
Move upward, working out the beast, 

And let the ape and tiger die ! 

AirEED Tennyson. 



Is it OTomc? 

Is it come % they said, on the banks of the Nile, 

Who looked for the world's long-promised day. 
And saw but the strife of Egypt's toil. 

With the desert's sand and the granite gray. 
From the pyramid, temple, and treasured dead. 

We vainly ask for her wisdom's plan ; 
They tell us of the tyrant's dread — 

Yet there was hope when that day began. 

The Chaldee came, with his starry lore; 

And built iip Babylon's crown and creed ; 
And bricks were stamped on the Tigris shore 

With signs which our sages scarce can read. 
From Ninus' temple, and Nimrod's tower. 

The rule of the old East's empire spread 
Unreasoning faith and unquestioned power — 

But still, Is it come ? the watcher said. 

The light of the Persian's worshipped flame, 

The ancient bondage its splendor threw ; 
And once, on the west a sunrise came, 

When Greece to her freedom's trust was true ; 
With dreams to the utmost ages dear, 

With human gods, and with god-like men, 
N'o marvel the far-oii day seemed near. 

To eyes that looked through her laurels then. 

The Romans conquered, and revelled too. 
Till honor, and faith, and power, were gone; 

And deeper old Europe's darkness grew, 
As, wave after wave, the Goth came on. 



The gown was learning, the sword was law ; 

The people served in the oxen's stead ; 
But ever some gleam the watcher saw. 

And evermore. Is it come f they said. 

Poet and seer that question caught. 

Above the din of life's fears and frets ; 
It marched with letters, it toiled with thought. 

Through schools and creeds which the earth 
forgets. 
And statesmen trifle, and priests deceive. 

And traders barter our world away — 
Yet hearts to that golden promise cleave, 

And still, at times, Is it come ? they say. 

The days of the nations bear no trace 

Of all the sunshine so far foretold ; 
The cannon speaks in the teacher's place — 

The age is weary with work and gold ; 
And high hopes wither, and memories wane. 

On hearths and altars the fires are dead ; 
But that brave faith hath not lived in vain — 

And this is all that our watcher said. 

Frances Beown. 



Jf tl)at mere Sme ! 

'Tis long ago, — we have toiled and traded. 

Have lost and fretted, have gained and grieved, 
Since last the light of that fond faith faded ; 

But, friends — in its day — what we believed ! 
The poets' dreams and the peasants' stories — 

Oh, never will time that trust renew ! 
Yet they were old on the earth before us. 

And lovely tales, — had they been true ! 

Some spake of homes in the greenwood hidden. 

Where age was fearless and youth was free — 
Where none at life's board seemed guests unbidden, 

But men had years like the forest tree: 
Goodly and fair and full of summer. 

As lives went by when the world was new, 
Ere ever the angel steps passed from her, — 

Oh, dreamers and bards, if that were true ! 

Some told us of a stainless standard — 
Of hearts that only in death grew cold. 

Whose march was ever in freedom's vanguard. 
And not to be stayed by steel or gold. 



746 POJSMS OF SENTI3IENT AND REFLECTION. 


The world to their very graves was debtor — 


And pale dog-roses in the hedge, 


The tears of her love fell there like dew ; 


And from the mint-plant in the sedge, 


But there had been neither slave nor fetter 


In puffs of balm the night-air blows 


This day in her realms, had that been true ! 


The perfume which the day foregoes. 




And on the pure horizon far, 


Our hope grew strong as the giant-slayer : 


See, pulsing with the first-born star. 


They told that life was an honest game, 


The liquid sky above the hill ! 


Where fortune favored the fairest player, 


The evening comes, the fields are still. 


And only the false found loss and blame — 




That men were honored for gifts and graces, 


Loitering and leaping. 


And not for the prizes folly drew ; 


With saunter, with bounds — 


But there would be many a change of places. 


Flickering and circling 


In hovel and hall, if that were true ! 


In files and in rounds — 


Some said to our silent souls. What fear ye ? 


Gayly their pine-staff green 
Tossing in air, 


And talked of a love not based on clay — 


Loose o'er their shoulders white 


Of faith that would neither wane nor weary, ' 


Showering their hair — 


With all the dust of the pilgrim's day ; 


See ! the wild Masnads 


They said that fortune and time were changers. 


Break from the wood. 


But not by their tides such friendship grew ; 


Youth and lacchus 


Oh, we had never been trustless strangers 


Maddening their blood. 


Among our people, if that were true ! 


See ! through the quiet land 


And yet since the fairy time hath perished. 


Rioting they pass — 
Fling the fresh heaps about. 


With all its freshness, from hills and hearts. 


Trample the grass. 


The last of its love, so vainly cherished. 


Tear from the rifled hedge 


Is not for these days of schools and marts. 


Garlands, their prize ; 


Up, up ! for the heavens still circle o'er us ; 


Fill with their sports the field, 


There 's wealth to win and there 's work to do. 


Fill with their cries. 


There 's a sky above, and a grave before us — 




And, brothers, beyond them all is true ! 


Shepherd, what ails thee, then ? 


Frances Brown. 


Shepherd, why mute ? , 




Forth with thy joyous song ! 




Forth with thy "flute ! 


J3accl)analia; or, @[l}e Ncra ^gc. 


Tempts not the revel blithe ? 
Lure not their cries? 


I. 


Glow not their shoulders smooth ? 


The evening comes, the fields are still. 
The tinkle of the thirsty rill. 
Unheard all day, ascends again ; 
Deserted is the half-mown plain. 
Silent the swaths ! the ringing wain. 


Melt not their eyes ? 
Is not, on cheeks like those, 

Lovely the flush 1 
— Ah, so the quiet was ! 

So was the hush ! 


The mower's cry, the dog's alarms, 




All housed within the sleeping farms ! 


II. 


The business of the day is done, . 


The epoch ends, the world is still. 


The last-left haymaker is gone. 


The age has talked and worked its fiU — 


And from the thyme upon the height. 


The famous orators have shone, 


And from the elder-blossom white 


The famous poets sung and gone. 



THE DAY 01 


■' THE LORD. 747 


The famous men of war haA'e fought, 


Tempts not the bright new age i 


The famous speculators thought, 


Shines not its stream ? 


The famous players, sculptors, wrought, 


Look, ah, what genius, 


The famous painters filled their wall, 


Art, sci^ice, wit ! 


The famous critics judged it all. 


Soldiers like Caesar, 


The combatants are parted now — 


Statesmen like Pitt ! 


Uphung the spear, unbent the bow. 


Sculptors like Phidias, 


The puissant crowned, the weak laid low. 


Raphaels in shoals, 


And in the after-silence sweet. 


Poets like Shakespeare — 


Now strifes are hushed, our ears doth meet, 


Beautiful souls ! 


Ascending pure, the bell-like fame 


See, on their glowing cheeks 


Of this or that down-trodden name, 


Heavenly the flush ! 


Delicate spirits, pushed away 


— Ah, so the silence was ! 


In the hot press of the noonday. 


So was the hush ! 


And o'er the plain, where the dead age 




Did its now silent warfare wage — 


The woi-ld but feels the present's spell, 


O'er that wide plain, now wrapt in gloom. 


The poet feels the past as well ; 


Where many a splendor finds its tomb. 


Whatever men have done, might do. 


Many spent fames and fallen nights — 


Whatever thought, might think it too. 


The one or two immortal lights 


• Matthew Arhold. 


Rise slowly up into the sky 




To shine there everlastingly. 




Like stars over the bounding hill. 




The epoch ends, the world is still. 


ai)^ tUag of \\)t %oxh. 


Thundering and bursting 


The Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand ; 


In ton-ents, in waves — 


Its storms roll up the sky ; 


Carolling and shouting 


The nations sleep starving on heaps of gold ; 


Over tombs, amid graves — 


All dreamers toss and sigh ; 


See ! on the cumbered plain 


The night is darkest before the morn ; 


Clearing a stage, 


Wlien the pain is sorest the child is born, 


Scattering the past about. 


And the Day of the Lord is at hand. 


Comes the new age. 




Bards make new poems, 


Gather you, gather you, angels of God — 


Thinkers new schools, 


Freedom, and Mercy, and Truth ; 


Statesmen new systems, 


Come ! for the Earth is grown coward and old ; 


Critics new rules. 


Come down, and renew us her youth. 


All things begin again ; 


Wisdom, Self-sacrifice, Daring, and Love, 


Life is their prize ; 


Haste to the battle-field, stoop from above — 


Earth with their deeds they fill. 


To the Day of the Lord at hand. 


Fill with their cries. 






Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell — 


Poet, what ails thee, then f 


Famine, and Plague, and War : 


Say, why so mute ? 


Idleness, Bigotry, Cant, and Misrule, 


Forth with thy praising voice ! 


Gather, and fall in the snare ! 


Foi-th with thy flute ! 


Hireling and Mammonite, Bigot and Knave, 


Loiterer ! why sittest thou 


Crawl to the battle-field, sneak to your grave, 


Sunk in thy dream % 


In the Day of the Lord at hand. 



748 



POEMS OF SENTIIIENT AND REFLECTION. 



Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age of gold, 

While the Lord of all ages is here ? 
True hearts will leap up at the trumpet of God, 

And those who can suffer can dare. 
Each old age of gold was an iron age too, 
And the meekest of saints may find stern work to 
do. 
In the Day of the Lord at hand. 

Chakles Kingslet. 



@:i)e toorlir. 



'Tis all a great show. 

The world that we 're in — 
None can tell when 'twas finished, 

None saw it begin ; 
Men wander and gaze through 

Its courts and its halls. 
Like children whose love is 

The picture-hung walls. 

There are flowers in the meadow, 

There are clouds in the sky — 
Songs pour from the woodland, 

The waters glide by ; 
Too many, too many 

For eye or for ear, 
The sights that we see, 

And the sounds that we hear, 

A weight as of slumber 

Comes down on the mind ; 
So swift is life's train. 

To its objects we 're blind ; 
I myself am but one 

In the fleet-gliding show — 
Like others I walk, 

But know not where I go. 

One saint to another 

I heard say, " How long ? " 
1 listened, but naught more 

I heard of his song ; 
The shadows are walking • 

Through city and plain — 
How long shall the night 

And its shadow remain % 



How long ere shall shine, 

In this glimmer of things. 
The light of which prophet 

In prophecy sings f 
And the gates of that city 

Be open, whose sun 
No more to the west 

Its cii'cuit shall run ! 

Jones Vert. 



J3e |)aticnt. 

Be patient ! oh, be patient ! Put your ear against 

the earth ; 
Listen there how noiselessly the germ o' the seed 

has birth — 
How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its little 

way, 
TiU it parts the scarcely broken ground, and the 

blade stands up in the day. 

Be patient ! oh, be patient ! The germs of mighty 
thought 

Must have their silent undergrowth, must under- 
ground be wrought ; 

But as sure as there 's a power that makes the 
grass appear. 

Our land shall be green with liberty, the blade- 
time shall be here. 

Be patient ! oh, be patient ! — go and watch the 

wheat-ears grow — 
So imperceptibly that ye can mark nor change nor 

throe — 
Day after day, day after day, till the ear is fully 

grown. 
And then again day after day, till the ripened field 

is brown. 

Be patient ! oh, be patient ! — though yet our 

hopes are green, 
The harvest-fields of freedom shall be crowned 

with sunny sheen. 
Be ripening ! be ripening ! — mature your silent 

way. 

Till the whole broad land is tongued with fire on 

freedom's harvest-day ! 

Anonymous. 



EACH AND ALL. 749 




For I did not bring home the river and sky ; 


Sljerc be 9tl)osc. 


He sang to my ear — they sang to my eye. 


There be those who sow beside 


The delicate shells lay on the shore : 


The waters that in silence glide, 


The bubbles of the latest wave 


Trusting no echo will declare 


Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, 


Whose footsteps ever wandered there. 


And the bellowing of the savage sea 




Greeted their safe escape to me. 


The noiseless footsteps pass away, 


I wiped away the weeds and foam — 


The stream flows on as yesterday ; 


I fetched my sea-born treasures home ; 


Nor can it for a time be seen 


But the poor, unsightly, noisome things 


A benefactor there had been. 


Had left their beauty on the shore. 




With the sun, and the sand, and the wild up- 


Yet think not that the seed is dead 


roar. 


Wliich in the lonely place is spread ; 




It lives, it lives — the spring is nigh, 


The lover watched his graceful maid, 


And soon its life shall testify. 


As 'mid the virgin train she strayed; 




Nor knew her beauty's best attire 


That silent stream, that desert ground. 


Was woven still by the snow-white choir. 


No more unlovely shall be found ; 


At last she came to his hermitage. 


But scattered flowers of simplest grace 


Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage ; 


Shall spread their beauty round the place. 


The gay enchantment was undone — 




A gentle wife, but fairy none. 


And soon or late a time will come 




When witnesses, that now are dumb, 


Then I said, " I covet truth ; 


With grateful eloquence shall tell 


Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat — 


From whom the seed, there scattered, fell. 


I leave it behind with the games of youth." 


Bebnakd Babton. 


As I spoke, beneath my feet 




The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, 




Running over the club-moss burrs ; 




I inhaled the violet's breath ; 


€acl) anb %\l 


Around me stood the oaks and firs ; 




Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground ; 


Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown 


Over me soared the eternal sky. 


Of thee from the hill-top looking down ; 


Full of light and of deity ; 


The heifer that lows in the upland farm, 


Again I saw, again I heard, 


Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm ; 


The rolling river, the morning bird ; 


The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, 


Beauty through my senses stole — 


Deems not that great Napoleon 


I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 


Stops his horse, and lists with delight. 


Kalph Waldo Emekson. 


Whilst his flies sweep round yon Alpine height ; 




Nor knowest thou what argument 




Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. 




All are needed by each one — 


%\)t Cost Olliurcl). 


Nothing is fair or good alone. 




I thought the sparrow's note from heaven. 


In yonder dim and pathless wood 


Singing at dawn on the alder-bough ; 


Strange sounds are heard at twilight hour. 


I brought him home, in his nest, at even. 


And peals of solemn music swell 


He sings the song, but it pleases not now ; 


As from some minster's lofty tower. 



750 POEMS OF SENTUIENT AND REFLECTION. 


Prom age to age those sounds are heard, 


Low at the altar's foot I knelt, 


Borne on the breeze at twilight hour — 


Transfixed with awe, and dumb With dread ; 


Prom age to age no foot hath found 


For, blazoned on the vaulted roof. 


A pathway to the minster's tower ! 


Were heaven's fiercest glories spread. 




Yet when I raised my eyes once more. 


Late, wandering in that ancient wood. 


The vaulted roof itself was gone — 


As onward through the gloom I trod. 


Wide open was heaven's lofty door. 


From all the woes and wrongs of earth 


And every cloudy veQ withdrawn ! 


My soul ascended to its God. 




When lo ! in the hushed wilderness 


What visions burst upon my soul. 


I heard, far off, that solemn bell : 


What joys unutterable there 


Still, heavenward as my spirit soared, 


In waves on waves for ever roll 


Wilder and sweeter rang the knell. 


Like music through the pulseless air — 




These never mortal tongue may tell : 


While thus in holy musings wrapt. 


Let him who fain would prove their power 


My mind from outward sense withdrawn, 


Pause when he hears that solemn knell 


Some power had caught me from the earth. 


Float on the breeze at twilight hour. 


And far into the heavens upborne. 


LuDwiG Uhland. (German.) 


Methought a hundred years had passed 


Paraptirase of Saeah Helen Whitman. 


In mystic visions as I lay — 




When suddenly the parting clouds 




Seemed opening wide, and far away. 






at Sibcr ittoutl). 


No midday sun its glory shed, 




The stars were shrouded from my sight ; 


The low plains stretch to the west with a glimmer 


And lo ! majestic o'er my head, 


of rustling weeds. 


A minster shone in solemn light. 


Where the waves of a golden river wind home by 


High through the lurid heavens it seemed 


the marshy meads ; 


Aloft on cloudy wings to rise. 


And the strong wind born of the sea grows faint 


Till all its pointed turrets gleamed, 


with a sickly breath. 


Far flaming, through the vaulted skies ! 


As it stays in the fretting rushes and blows on the 




dews of death. 


The bell with full resounding peal 


We came to the silent city, in the glare of the 


Rang booming through the rocking tower ; 


noontide heat. 


No hand had stirred its iron tongue. 


When the sound of a whisper rang through the 


Slow swaying to the storm-wind's power. 


length of the lonely street ; 


My bosom beating like a bark 


No tree in the clefted ruin, no echo of song nor 


Dashed by the surging ocean's foam, 


sound. 


I trod with faltering, fearful joy 


But the dust of a world forgotten lay under the 


The mazes of the mighty dome. 


barren ground. 


A soft light through the oriel streamed 


There are shrines under these green hillocks to the 


Like summer moonlight's golden gloom. 


beautiful gods that sleep, 


Far through the dusky arches gleamed, 


Where they prayed in the stormy season for lives 


And filled with glory all the room. 


gone out on the deep ; 


Pale sculptures of the sainted dead * 


And here in the grave street sculptured, old record 


Seemed waking from their icy thrall ; 


of loves and tears. 


And many a glory-circled head 


By the dust of the nameless slave, forgotten a 


Smiled sadly from the storied wall. 


thousand years. 



AT TIBER MOUTH. 



751 



Nor ever again at even shall ship sail in on the breeze, 
Where the hulls of their gilded galleys came home 

from a hundred seas, 
For the marsh plants grow in her haven, the marsh 

birds breed in her bay. 
And a mile to the shoreless westward the water has 

passed away. 

But the sea-folk gathering rushes come up from 

the windy shore. 
So tlie song that the years have silenced grows 

musical there once more ! 
And now and again unburied, like some still voice 

from the dead, 
They light on the fallen shoulder and the lines of a 

marble head. 
But we went from the sorrowful city and wandered 

away at will, 
And thought of the breathing marble and the 

words that are music still. 

How full were their lives that labored, in their 

fetterless strength and far 
From the ways that our feet have chosen as the 

sunlight is from the star. 
They clung to the chance and promise that once 

while the years are free 
Look over our life's horizon as the sun looks over 

the sea, 
But we wait for a day that dawns not, and cry for 

unclouded skies. 
And while we are deep in dreaming, the light that 

wSs o'er us dies ; 
We know not what of the present we shall stretch 

out our hand to save. 
Who sing of the life we long for, and not of the 

life we have ; 
And yet if the chance were with us to gather the 

days misspent. 
Should we change the old resting-places, the 

wandering ways we went ? 
They were strong, but the years are stronger ; they 

are grown but a name that thrUls, 
And the wreck of their marble glory lies ghost-like 

over their hills. 
So a shadow fell o'er our dreaming for the weary 

heart of the past. 
For the seed that the years have scattered, to reap 

so little at last. 



And we went to the sea-shore forest, through a long 

colonnade of pines, 
Where the skies peep in, and the sea with a flitting 

of silver lines. 
And we came on an open place in the green, deep 

heart of the wood. 
Where I think in the years forgotten an altar 

of Faunus stood ; 
From a spring in the long, dark grasses two rivulets 

rise and run 
By the length of their sandy borders where the 

snake lies coiled in the sun. 
And the stars of the white narcissus lie over the 

grass like snow. 
And beyond in the shadowy places the crimson 

cyclamens grow ; 
Far up from their wave-home yonder the sea-winds 

murmuring pass. 
The branches quiver and creak, and the lizard 

starts in the grass. 
And we lay in the untrod moss and pillowed our 

cheeks with flowers. 
While the sun went over our heads, and we took no 

count of the hours ; 
From the end of the waving branches and under 

the cloudless blue, 
Like sunbeams chained for a banner, the thread- 
like gossamers flew. 
And the joy of the woods came o'er us, and we felt 

that our world was young 
With the gladness of years unspent and the sorrow 

of life unsung. 
So we passed with a sound of singing along to the 

seaward way. 
Where the sails of the fishermen folk came home- 
ward over the bay ; 
For a cloud grew over the forest and darkened the 

sea-god's shrine. 
And the hills of the silent city were only a ruby 

line. 
But the sun stood still on the waves as we passed 

from the fading shores. 
And shone on our boat's red bidwarks and the 

golden blades of the oars. 
And it seemed, as we steered for the sunset, that 

we passed through a twilight sea, 
From the gloom of a world forgotten to the light 

of a world to be. 

Eennbll Eodd. 



753 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 




Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, 


QCl)e ©arbcn of %onz. 


Painting with morn each annual cell ? 




Or how the sacred pine-tree adds 


I WENT to the garden of love, 


X 

To her old leaves new myriads ? 


And saw what I never had seen ; 


Such and so grew these holy piles, 


A chapel was built in the midst, 


Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. 


Where I used to play on the green. 


Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, 


And the gate of this chapel was shut, 


As the best gem upon her zone ; 


And " thou shalt not " writ over the door ; 


And morning opes with haste her lids 


So I turned to the garden of love, 


To gaze upon the pyramids ; 


That so many sweet flowers bore. 


O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, 




As on its friends, with kindred eye : 


And I saw it was filled with graves. 


For out of thought's interior sphere 


And tomb-stones where flowers should be ; 


These wonders rose to upper air ; 


And priests in black gowns were walking their 


And nature gladly gave them place, 


rounds. 


Adopted them into her race. 


And binding with briers my Joys and desires. 


And granted them an equal date 


WiLLiAai Blake. 


With Andes and with Ararat. 




These temples grew as grows the grass — 




Art might obey, but not surpass. 


2i;i)c JJrobUtn. 


The passive master lent his hand 




To the vast soul that o'er him planned ; 


I LIKE a church ; I like a cowl — 


And the same power that reared the shrine 


I love a prophet of the soul ; 


Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. 


And on my heart monastic aisles 


Ever the fiery Pentecost 


Pall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles ; 


Girds with one flame the countless host, 


Yet not for all his faith can see, 


Trances the heart through chanting choirs 


Would I that cowled churchman be. 


And through the priest the mind inspires. 


Why should the vest on him allure 


The word unto the prophet spoken 


Which I could not on me endure ? 


Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; 


Not from a vain or shallow thought 


The word by seers or sibyls told. 


His awful Jove young Phidias brought; 


In groves of oak, or fanes of gold, 


Never from lips of cunning fell 


Still floats upon the morning wind, ' 


The thrilling Delphic oracle ; 


Still whispers to the willing mind. 


Out from the heart of nature rolled 


One accent of the Holy Ghost 


The burdens of the Bible old ; 


The heedless world hath never lost. 


The litanies of nations came, 


I know what say the fathers wise — 


Like the volcano's tongue of flame. 


The book itself before me lies — 


Up from the burning core below — 


Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, 


The canticles of love and woe ; 


And he who blent both in his line. 


The hand that rounded Peter's dome, 


The younger golden lips or mines — 


And groined the aisles of Christian Kome, 


Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines ; 


Wrought in a sad sincerity ; 


His words are music in my ear — 


Himself from God he could not free ; 


I see his cowled portrait dear ; 


He builded better than he knew — 


And yet, for all his faith could see. 


The conscious stone to beauty grew. ' 


I would not the good bishop be. 




Raiph Waldo Emerson. 


Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nest 




Of leaves, and feathers from her breast ? 





THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 



753 



®l)c Cotters Sotxtrbag Nigl^t. 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

Grat. 

Mt loved, my honored, much-respected friend ! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end, 

My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise. 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequestered scene ; 
The, native feelings strong, the guileless ways — 

What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 

Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, 
I ween. 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 

The short'ning winter day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh, 

The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose. 
The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes — 

Tills night his weekly moil is at an end — 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend ; 

And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hame- 
ward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 

Th' expectant wee things, todlin, stacher thro' 
To meet their dad wi' iliehterin noise and glee. 

His wee bit ingle blinkin' bonnilie, 
His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifle's smile, 

The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile. 
An' makes him quite forget his labor and his 
toil. 

Bely ve the elder bairns come drappin' in — 

At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neebor town. 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her ee, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown, 

Or deposite her sair-won penny fee. 

To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 
SO 



Wi' joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet. 

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers ; 
The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet ; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years — 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers. 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel 's the new ; 

The father mixes a' wi' admonition due : 

Their masters' and their mistresses' command 
The younkers a' are warned to obey. 

An' mind their labors wi' an eydent hand. 
An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play, 

An' oh ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 
An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 

Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 
Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord 
aright ! 

But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's ee, and flush her cheek ; 
Wi' heartstruck anxious care, inquires his name, 

While Jenny hafQins is afraid to speak ; 

Weel pleased the mother hears it 's nae wild, 
worthless rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben — 
A strappan youth, he taks the mother's eye ; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit 's no ill ta'en ; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye ; 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 
But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel be- 
have ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae 

grave — 
Weel pleased to think her bairn 's respected like 
the lave. 

happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary mortal round. 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 



754 



POEMS OF SENTUIENT AND REFLECTION. 



If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 

'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair. 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the 
evening gale. 

Is there, in human form that bears a heart, 
A wretch, a villain, lost to love and truth. 

That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 

Curse on his perjured arts ! dissembling smooth ! 
Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled? 

Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child — 
Then paints the ruined maid, and their distrac- 
tion wild i 

But now the supper erovras their simple board : 
The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food ; 

The soup their only hawkie does afford. 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cud ; 

The dame brings forth, in coraplimental mood. 
To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck fell. 

An' aft he 's pressed, and aft he ca's it good ; 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the 
bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. 

The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 

His lyart haffets wearin' thin and bare : 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide 

He wales a portion with judicious care ; 

And " Let us worship God ! " he says with sol- 
emn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 
aim; 
Perhaps Dundee's wild, warbling measures rise. 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy o' the,name ; 
Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame -^ 

The sweetest far o' Scotia's holy lays ; 
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 



The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise — 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page : 

How Abraham was the friend of God on 
high; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny : 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 

Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme : 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 

How He, who bore in heaven the second name. 
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; 

How his first followers and servants sped — 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land ; 

How he, who lone in Patmos banished. 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand. 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by 
Heaven's command. 

Then kneeling down to heaven's eternal king. 

The saint, the fathei', and the husband prays : 
Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing " 

That thus they all shall meet in future 
days ; 
There ever bask in uncreated rays. 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear — 
Together hymning their creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear, 

While circling time moves round in an eternal 
sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method and of art. 
When men display to congregations wide 

Devotion's every grace except the heart ! 
The power, incensed, the pageant will desert. 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
Biit haply, in some cottage far apart. 

May hear, well pleased, the language of the 
soul. 

And in his book of life the inmates poor en- 
roll. 



HALLOWED GROUND. 



755 



Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And profEer np to heaven the warm request 
That He who stills the raven's elam'rous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best. 

For them and for their little ones provide — 

But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 
springs. 

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad. 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings — 

" An honest man 's the noblest work of God ; " 
And, certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road. 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind. 
What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous load, 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. 

Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness re- 
fined ! 

Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 
For whom my warmest wish to heaven is 
sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blest with health, and peace, and ^weet con- 
tent ! 
And, oh ! may Heaven their simple lives pre- 
vent 
From luxury's contagion weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much- 
loved isle. 

thou ! who poured the patriotic tide 
That streamed through Wallace's undaunted 
heart — 

Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 
Or nobly die, the second glorious part — 

(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art — 
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward ! ) 

Oh never, never Scotia's realm desert ; 

But still the patriot and the patriot bard 

In bright succession raise, her ornament and 

guard ! 

Robert Burns. 



f allotDcb ©rounb. 

What 's hallowed ground ? Has earth a clod 
Its Maker meant not should be trod 
By man, the image of his God 

Erect and free, 
Unscourged by superstition's rod 

To bow the knee ? 

That 's hallowed ground where, mourned and 

missed, 
The lips repose our love has kissed : 
But where 's their memory's mansion ? Is 't 

Yon churchyard bowers ? 
No ! in ourselves their souls exist, 

A part of ours. 

A kiss can consecrate the ground 
Where mated hearts are mutual bound ; 
The spot where love's first links were wound 

That ne'er are riven, 
Is hallowed, down to earth's profound. 

And up to heaven ! 

For time makes all but true love old ; 
Tlie burning thoughts that then were told 
Run molten still in memory's mould. 

And will not cool 
Until the heart itself be cold 

In Lethe's pool. 

WTiat hallows ground where heroes sleep ? 
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap ! 
In dews that heavens far distant weep, 

Their turf may bloom. 
Or genii twine beneath the deep 

Their coral tomb. 

But strew his ashes to the wind 

Whose sword or voice has served mankind — 

And is he dead whose glorious mind 

Lifts thine on high ? 
To live in hearts we leave behind 

Is not to die. 

Is 't death to fall for freedom's right ? 
He 's dead alone that lacks her light ! 



756 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION 


And murder sullies in heaven's sight 


Else why so swell the thoughts at your 


The sword he draws : 


Aspect above ? 


What can alone ennoble fight ? 


Ye must be heavens that make us sure 


A noble cause ! 


Of heavenly love ! 


Give that ! and welcome war to brace 


And in your harmony sublime 


Her drums, and rend heaven's reeking space ! 


I read the doom of distant time : 


The colors planted face to face, 


That man's regenerate soul from crime 


The charging cheer. 


Shall yet be drawn. 


Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase. 


And reason, on his mortal clime, 


Shall still be dear. 


Immortal dawn. 


And place our trophies where men kneel 


What 's hallowed ground ? 'Tis what gives birth 


To Heaven ! — But Heaven rebukes my zeal. 


To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — 


The cause of truth and human weal, 


Peace, independence, truth, go forth, 


God above ! 


Earth's compass round ; 


Transfer it from the sword's appeal 


And your high priesthood shall make earth 


To peace and love. 


All haUowed ground I 




Thomas Campbkli.. 


Peace ! love! — the cherubim that join 




Their spread wings o'er devotion's shrine ! 




Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, 




Where they are not ; 
The heart alone can make divine 


a:[)e igapps Cife. 


Religion's spot. 


How happy is he bom and taught 




That serveth not another's will, 


To incantations dost thou trust, 


Whose armor is his honest thought. 


And pompous rites in domes august ? 


And simple truth his utmost skill ! 


See mouldering stones and metal's rust 


X^ 


Belie the vaunt, 




That men can bless one pile of dust 
With chime or ehaunt. 


Whose passions not his masters are, 
Whose soul is still prepared for death, 




Untied unto the worldly care 


The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man ! 


Of public fame or private breath ! 


Thy temples — creeds themselves grow wan ! 




But there 's a dome of nobler span. 


Who envies none that chance doth raise. 


A temple given 
Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — 


Or vice ; who never understood 


How deepest wounds are given by praise, 


Its space is heaven ! 


Nor rules of state, but rules of good ; 


Its roof star-pictured nature's ceiling, 


Who hath his life from humors freed. 


Where, trancing the rapt spirit's feeling, 


Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 


And God himself to man revealing, 


Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 


The harmonious spheres 


Nor ruin make accusers great ; 


Make music, though unheard their pealing 




By mortal ears. « 


Who God doth late and early pray 




More of his grace than gifts to lend ; 


Pair stars ! are not your beings pure ? 


And entertains the harmless day 


Can sin, can death, your worlds obscure ? 


With a well-chosen book or friend : 



MAN. 757 


This man is freed from servUe bands 


All things unto our flesh are kinde 


Of hope to rise, or fear to fall — 


In their descent and being — to our minde 


Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 


In their ascent and cause. 


And, having nothing, yet hath all. 




Sm Hbnbt Wotton. 


Each thing is full of dutie : 




Waters united are our navigation — 




Distinguished, our habitation ; 


iltan. 


Below, our drink — above, our meat; 




Both are our cleanlinesse. Hath one such beautie ? 


My God, I heard this day 


Then how are all things neat I 


That none doth build a stately habitation 




But he that means to dwell therein. 


More servants wait on man 


What house more stately hath there been. 


Than he'll take notice of. In every path 


Or can be, than is man, to whose creation 


He treads down that which doth befriend him 


All things are in decay ? 


When sickness makes him pale and wan. 




mightie love ! Man is one world, and hath 


For man is every thing, 


Another to attend him. 


And more : he is a tree, yet bears no fruit ; 




A beast, yet is, or should be, more — • 


Since then, my God, thou hast 


Eeason and speech we only bring. 


So brave a palace built, oh dwell in it, 


Parrots may thank us, if they are not mute — 


That it may dwell with thee at last ! 


They go upon the score. 


Till then aiiord us so much wit 




That, as the world serves us, we may serve thee. 


Man is all symmetric — 


And both thy servants be. 


Full of proportions, one limb to another, 


Geokgb Herbert. 


And all to all the world besides. 




Each part may call the farthest brother ; 




For head with foot hath private amitie, 




And both with moons and tides. 


Sceb-QTinie onir i^artjest. 


Nothing hath got so far re 


As o'er his furrowed fields, which lie 


But man hath caught and kept it as his prey. 


Beneath a coldly-dropping sky, 


His eyes dismount the highest starre ; 


Yet chill with winter's melted snow. 


He is in little all the sphere. 


The husbandman goes forth to sow : 


Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they 




Finde their acquaintance there. 


Thus, freedom, on the bitter blast 




The ventures of thy seed we cast, 


For us the winds do blow. 


And trust to warmer sun and rain 


The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains 


To swell the germ and fill the grain. 


flow. 




Nothing we see but means our good, 


"Who calls thy glorious service hard ? 


As our delight, or as our treasure ; 


Who deems it not its own reward ? 


The whole is either our cupboard of food 


Who, for its trials, counts it less 


Or cabinet of pleasure. 


A cause of praise and thankfulness 1 


The starres have us to bed — 


It may not be our lot to wield 


Night draws the curtain, which the sunne with- 


The sickle in the ripened field ; 


draws. 


Nor ours to hear, on summer eves. 


Musick and light attend our head ; 


The reaper's song among the sheaves ; 



758 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Yet where our duty's task is wrought 


III. 


In unison with God's great thought, 
The near and future blend in one, 


Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous 


And whatsoe'er is willed is done ! 


song, 




And while the young lambs bound 


And ours the grateful service whence 


As to the tabor's sound. 


Comes, day by day, the recompense — 


To me alone there came a thought of grief ; 


The hope, the trust, the purpose staid. 


A timely utterance gave that thought relief. 


The fountain, and the noonday shade. 


And I again am strong. 




The cataracts blow their trumpets from the 


And were this life the utmost span, 


steep — 


The only end and aim of man. 


No more shall grief of mine the season 


Better the toil of fields like these 


wrong. 


Than waking dream and slothful ease. 


I hear the echoes through the mountains 




throng ; 


Our life, though falling like our grain, 


The winds come to me from the fields of 


Like that revives and springs again ; 
And early called, how blessed are they 


sleep. 
And all the earth is gay ; 


Who wait in heaven their harvest-day ! 

John Grbenlbaf Whittibr. 


Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity ; 
And with the heart of May 




Doth every beast keep holiday ; — 




Thou child of joy. 


®be. 


Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou 




happy shepherd boy ! 


INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS 




OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. 


IV. 


I. 


Ye blessed creatures ! I have heard the call 


There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 


Ye to each other make ; 1 see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 


The earth, and every common sight, 


My heart is at your festival. 


To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light — 
The glory and the freshness of a dream, 
it is not now as it hath been of yore : 
Turn wheresoe'er I may, 


My head hath its coronal — 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel, I feel it all. 
Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 
While earth herself is adorning, 
This sweet May-morning, 


By night or day, 
The things which I have seen, I now can see no more. 


And the children are culling 
On every side, 




In a thousand valleys far and wide, 


II. 


Fresh fiowers ; while the sun shines warm. 


The rainbow comes and goes. 


And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm — 


And lovely is the rose ; 


I hear, 1 hear, with joy I hear ! 


The moon doth with delight 


— But there 's a tree, of many one. 


Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 


A single field which I have looked upon — 


Waters on a starry night 


Both of them speak of something that is gone ; 


Are beautiful and fair ; • 


The pansy at my feet 


The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 


Doth the same tale repeat. 


But yet I know, where'er I go. 


Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 


That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 


Where is it now, the gloiy and the dream ? 



ODK 



759 



Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting ; 
The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 
Hath had elsewhere its setting, 

And Cometh from afar, 
Not in entire forgetfulness, 
And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home. 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing boy ; 
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows — 

He sees it in his joy. 
The youth, who daily farther from the east 
Must travel, still is nature's priest, 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended ; 
At length the man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

TI. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own. 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind ; 
And, even with something of a mother's mind. 
And no unworthy aim, 
The homely nurse doth all she can ■ 
To make her foster-child, her inmate man, 

Forget the glories he hath known. 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 

TII. 

Behold the child among his new-born blisses — 
A six years' darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. 

With liglit upon him from his father's eyes ! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. 

Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art — 
A wedding or a festival, 
A mourning or a funeral — 

And this hath now his heart. 
And unto this he frames his song. 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife : 
But it will not be long 



Ere this be thrown aside. 

And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part — 
Filling from time to time his " humorous stage " 
With all the persons, down to palsied age. 
That life brings with her in her equipage ; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 



Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie. 

Thy soul's immensity! 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 

Thy heritage ! thou eye among the blind. 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep. 
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind ! — 
Mighty prophet ! Seer blest. 
On whom those truths do rest 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find. 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ! 

Thou over whom thy immortality 
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 

A presence which is not to be put by 1 
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height. 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou j^ro- 

Toke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly 

freight, 
And custom lie upon tl>ee with a weight 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as lite ! 

IX, 

Oh joy ! that in our embers 

Is something that doth live. 
That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction : not, indeed. 

For that which is most worthy to be blest — 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest. 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his 
breast — 

Not for these I raise 

The song of thanks and praise ; 



760 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


But for those obstinate questionings 


XI. 


Of sense and outward things, 




Fallings from us, vanishings, 


And ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves. 


Blank misgivings of a creature 


Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 


Moving about in worlds not realized, 


Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 


High instincts, before which our mortal nature 


I only have relinquished one delight 


Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised — 


To live beneath your more habitual sway. 


But for those first affections, 


I love the brooks which down their channels fret. 


Those shadowy recollections, 


Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 


Which, be they what they may. 


The innocent brightness of a new-born day 


Are yet the fountain-light of all our day. 


Is lovely yet ; 


Are yet a master light of all our seeing. 


The cloitds that gather round the setting sun 


Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 


Do take a sober coloring from an eye 


Our noisy years seem moments in the being 


That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 


Of the eternal silence : truths that wake. 


Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 


To perish never — 


Thanks to the human heart by which we live. 


"Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor. 


Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears — 


Nor man nor boy, 


To me the meanest flower that blows can give 


Nor all that is at enmity with joy. 


Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 


Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 


William Wobdsworth. 


Hence in a season of calm weather. 




Though inland far we be. 




Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 




Which brought us hither — 


tl)c £igl)t of Stars. 


Can in a moment travel thither, 




And see the children sport upon the shore. 


The night is come, but not too soon ; 


And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 


And sinking silently. 




All silently, the little moon 


X. 


Drops down behind the sky. 


Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 


There is no light in earth or heaven. 


And let the young lambs bound 


But the cold light of stars ; 


As to the tabor's sound ! 


And the first watch of night is given 


We in thought will join your throng. 


To the red planet Mars. 


Ye that pipe and ye that play. 




Ye that through your hearts to-day 


Is it the tender star of love ? 


Feel the gladness of the May ! 


The star of love and dreams ? 


What though the radiance which was once so bright 


Oh no ! from that blue tent above 


Be now for ever taken from my sight, 


A hero's armor gleams. 


Though nothing can bring back the hour 




Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower -r- 


And earnest thoughts within me rise. 


We will grieve not, rather find 


When I behold afar. 


Strength in what remains behind : 


Suspended in the evening skies, 


In the primal sympathy 


The shield of that red star. 


Which, having been, must ever be ; 




In the soothing thoughts that spring 


star of strength ! I see thee stand 


Out of human suffering ; 


And smile upon my pain ; 


In the faith that looks through death. 


Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, 


In years that bring the philosophic mind. 


And I am strong again. 



OFT IN THE STILLY NIQET. 



761 



Within my breast there is no light, 

But the cold light of stars : 
I give the first watch of the night 

To the red planet Mars. 

The star of the unconquered will, 

He rises in my breast, 
Serene, and resolute, and still. 

And calm, and self-possessed. 

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, 
That readest this brief psalm, 

As one by one thy hopes depart, 
Be resolute and calm ! 

Oh fear not in a world like this, 
And thou shalt know ere long. 

Know how sublime a thing it is 
To suffer and be strong. 

HeNBT WaDSWOKTH LONGrBLLOW. 



®ft in X\\t 0tiU2 Nigl)t. 

Oft in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me : 
The smiles, the tears. 
Of boyhood's years, 
The words of love then spoken ; 
The eyes that shone. 
Now dimmed and gone. 
The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
Thus in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

When I remember all 

The friends, so linked together, 
I've seen around me fall. 
Like leaves in wintry weather, 

I feel like one 

Who treads alone 
Some banquet-hall deserted, 

Whose lights are fled. 

Whose garlands dead. 
And all but he departed ! 



Thus in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 

Of other days around me. 

Thomas Moobe. 



When I survey the bright 

Celestial sphere. 
So rich with jewels hung that night 

Doth like an Ethiop bride appear. 

My soul her wings doth spread. 

And heavenward flies. 
The Almighty's mysteries to read 

In the large volume of the skies. 

For the bright firmament 

Shoots forth no flame 
So silent but is eloquent 

In speaking the Creator's name ; 

No unregarded star 

Contracts its light 
Into so small character. 

Removed far from our human sight. 

But if we steadfast look. 

We shall discern 
In it, as in some holy book, 

How man may heavenly knowledge learn. 

It tells the conqueror 

That far-fetched power. 
Which his proud dangers traffic for. 

Is but the triumph of an hour — 

That from the farthest north 

Some nation may. 
Yet undiscovered, issue forth, 

And o'er his new-got conquest sway ! 

Some nation, yet shut in 

With hills of ice, 
May be let out to scourge his sin. 

Till they shall equal him in vice. 



i 
763 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


And they likewise shall 




Their ruin have ; 


Slje Qturbg lork, for all l)is Strengtl). 


For as yourselves your empires fall, 




And every kingdom hath a grave. 


The sturdy rock, for all his strength, 




By raging seas is rent in twain ; 


There those celestial fires, 


The marble stone is pierced at length 


Though seeming mute, 


With little drops of drizzling rain ; 


The fallacy of our desires 


The ox doth yield unto the yoke ; 


And all the pride of life confute. 


The steel obey'th the hammer-stroke ; 


For they have watched since first 


The stately stag, that seems so stout. 


The world had birth, 


By yelping hounds at bay is set ; 


And found sin in itself accurst. 


The swiftest bird that flies about 


And nothing permanent on earth. 


Is caught at length in fowler's net ; 


William Habington. 


The greatest fish in deepest brook 




Is soon deceived with subtle hook ; 


2lirs toell! 


Yea ! man himself, unto whose will 




All things are bounden to obey, 


Eight bells ! Eight bells ! their clear tone tells 


For all his wit and worthy skill 


The midnight hour is here. 


Doth fade at length, and fall away: 


And as they cease, these words of peace 


There is no thing but time doth waste — 


Fall gently on my ear : 


The heavens, the earth consume at last. 


"All's well! All's well I" 






But virtue sits triumphing still 


Fond thoughts fly far, where loved ones are, 


Upon the throne of glorious fame ; 


Though distant, ever near, 


Though spiteful death man's body kill. 


From those dear homes the echo comes, 


Yet hurts he not his virtuous name. 


Our longing hearts to cheer : 


By life or death, whatso betides. 


" All 's well ! All 's well ! " 


The state of virtue never slides. 




Anonymous. 


Swift through the deep our course we keep, 




To shores unseen we steer, 




No thought of ill our souls shall chill, 


tJirtue. 


Nor wind nor wave we fear : 


" AU 's well ! All 's weH ! " 


Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright. 




The bridal of the earth and sky ! 


Thus o'er life's sea our voyage may be 


The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; 


A pathway lone and drear, 


For thou must die. 


Through tempest loud and sorrow's cloud, 




Faith still shall whisper near : 


Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave. 


"AU 'swell! All's well!" 


Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye ! 




Thy root is ever in its grave — 


And when for me, earth, sky, and sea 


And thou must die. 


Shall fade and disappear. 




May this sweet note still downward float, 


Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses. 


From some undying sphere : 


A box where sweets compacted lie ; 


"All's well! All 'swell!" 


Thy music shows ye have your closes. 


William Allen Butler. 


And all must die. 



THE HERMIT. 



763 



Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 

Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 
But, though the whole world turn to coal. 
Then chiefly lives. 

George Herbert. 



?]IJeatl)'s £\na\ Conquest. 

The glories of our birth and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
There is no armor against fate — 
Death lays his icy hands on kings ; 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down, 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 
And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield — 
They tame but one another still ; 
Early or late 
They stoop to fate. 
And must give up their murmuring breath, 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

The garlands wither on your brow — 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds. 
Upon death's purple altar, now. 
See where the victor victim bleeds ! 
All heads must come 
To the cold tomb. 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. 

James Shirley. 



®l)e permit. 

At the close of the day, when tlie hamlet is still. 

And mortals the sweets of foi-getfulness prove, 
Wlien nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, 

And nought but the nightingale's song in the 
grove, 
'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, 

While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit be- 
gan; 
No more with himself or with nature at war, 

He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man : 



" Ah ! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe, 

Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall 1 
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, 

And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthrall. 
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay — 

Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to 
mourn ! 
Oh soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass 
away ! 

Full quickly they pass — but they never return. 

" Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky. 
The moon, half extinguished, her crescent dis- 
plays ; 
But lately I marked when majestic on high 
She shone, and the planets were lost in her 
blaze. 
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pur- 
sue 
The path that conducts thee to splendor again ! 
But man's faded glory what change shall re- 
new? 
Ah, fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! 

" 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more. 
I mourn — but, ye woodlands, I moiu'n not for 
you; 
For morn is approaching your charms to restore, 
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering 
with dew. 
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn — 

Kind nature the embryo blossom will save ; 
But when shall spring visit the mouldering 
urn? 
Oh when shall day dawn on the night of the 
grave? 

" 'Twas thus, by the glare of false science be- 
trayed. 
That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind. 
My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to 
shade, 
Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 
' Oh pity, great Father of light,' then I cried, 
' Thy creature, who fain would not wander from 
thee ! 
Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride ; 
From doubt and from darkness thou only canst 
free.' 



764 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


" And darkness and doubt are now flying away ; 


In a voice so sweet and clear 


No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. 


That I could not choose but hear — 


So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, 




The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. 


Songs of triumph, and ascriptions. 


See truth, love, and mercy in triumph descending. 


Such as reached the swart Egyptians, 


And nature aU glowing in Eden's fii'st bloom ! 


When upon the Red Sea coast 


On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are 


Perished Pharaoh and his host. 


blending. 


And the voice of his devotion 


And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb." 


Filled my soul with strange emotion ; 


James Beattib. 


For its tones by turns were glad, 




Sweetly solemn, wildly sad. 


a;i)e Strife. 


Paul and Silas, in their prison, 




Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen ; 


The wish that of the living whole 


And an earthquake's arm of might 


No hfe may fail beyond the grave, 


Broke their dungeon-gates at night. 


Derives it not from what we have 




The likest Grod within the soul ? 


But, alas ! what holy angel 




Brings the slave this glad evangel ? 


Are God and nature then at strife. 


And what earthquake's arm of might 


That nature lends such evil dreams ? 


Breaks his dungeon-gates at night ? 


So careful of the type she seems, 


Henbt Wadswoeth Longfellow. 


So careless of the single life. 




That I, considering everywhere 




Her secret meaning in her deeds, 


a;i)e Sie^p. 


And finding that of fifty seeds 




She often brings but one to bear — 


Op all the thoughts of God that are 




Borne inward unto souls afar, 


I falter where I firmly trod ; 


Along the Psalmist's music deep, 


And, falling with my weight of cares 


Now tell me if that any is 


Upon the great world's altar-stairs, 


For gift or grace surpassing this — 


That slope through darkness up to God, 


" He giveth his beloved sleep." 


I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope. 


What would we give to our beloved ? 
The hero's heart, to be unmoved — 


And gather dust and chaff, and call 


To what I feel is lord of all. 




And faintly trust the larger hope. 


The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep — 
The senate's shout to patriot's vows — 


Alfred Tennyson. 


The monarch's crown, to light the brows ? 




" He giveth his beloved sleep." 


Qri)^ Slaoe Singing at iHibnigljt. 


What do we give to our beloved ? 
A little faith, all undisproved — 


Loud he sang the psalm of David ! 


A little dust to overweep — 


He, a negro and enslaved — 


And bitter memories, to make — 


Sang of Israel's victory. 


The whole earth blasted for our sake ! — 


Sang of Zion, bright and free. ' 


" He giveth his beloved sleep." 


In that hour when night is calmest, 


" Sleep soft, beloved ! " we sometimes say. 


Sang he from the Hebrew psalmist. 


But have no tune to charm away 



AN OLD POET TO SLEEP. 



765 



Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep ; 
But never doleful dream again 
Shall break the happy slumber when 

" He giveth his beloved sleep." 

earth, so full of dreary noises ! 
men, with wailing in your voices ! 
delved gold the wallers' heap ! 

strife, curse, that o'er it fall ! 
God makes a silence through you all, 

" And giveth his beloved sleep." 

His dew drops mutely on the hill ; 
His cloud above it saileth still. 

Though on its slope men toil and reap. 
More softly than the dew is shed, 
Or cloud is floated overhead, 

" He giveth his beloved sleep." 

Yea ! men may wonder whUe they scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man 

In such a rest his heart to keep ; 
But angels say — and through the word 

1 ween their blessed smile is heard — 
" He giveth his beloved sleep." 

For me, my heart that erst did go 
Most like a tired child at a show, 

That sees through tears the juggler's leap. 
Would now its wearied vision close — 
Would, childlike, on his love repose 

Who " giveth his beloved sleep." 

And friends ! — dear friends ! — when it shall be 
That this low breath is gone from me, 

And round my bier ye come to weep. 
Let one, most loving of you all. 
Say, " Not a tear must o'er her fall " — 

" He giveth his beloved sleep." 

Elizabeth Barrett Bkotvuing. 



^n ©lit foct to 01ee?j. 

Fo god to mortals oftener descends 
Than thou, Sleep ! yet thee the sad alone 
Invoke, and gratefully thy gift receive. 
Some thou invitest to explore the sands 



Left by Pactolus ; some to climb up higher, 
Where points ambition to the pomps of war ; 
Others thou watchest while they tighten robes 
Which law throws roimd them loose, and they 

meanwhile 
Wink at a judge, and he the wink returns. 
Apart sit fewer, whom thou lovest more 
And leadest where unruffled rivers flow. 
Or azure lakes 'neath azure skies expand. 
These have no wider wishes, and no fears, 
Unless a fear, in turning to molest 
The silent, solitary, stately swan, 
Disdaining the garrulity of groves 
Nor seeking shelter there from sun or storm. 

Me also hast thou led among such scenes, 
Gentlest of gods ! and age appeared far off 
While thou wast standing close above the couch, 
And whispered'st, in whisper not unheard, 
" I now depart from thee, but leave behind 
My own twin-brother, friendly as myself. 
Who soon shall take my place ; men call him Death. 
Thou hearest me, nor tremblest, as most do ; 
In sooth, why shouldst thou ? What man hast thou 

wronged 
By deed or word ? Pew dare ask this within." 

There was a pause ; then suddenly said Sleep, 
" He whom I named approacheth, so farewell." 
Walter Savasb Landor. 



01ec|]. 

Weep ye no more, sad fountains ! 

What need you flow so fast 9 
Look how the snowy mountains 
Heaven's sun doth gently waste. 
But my sun's heavenly eyes 
View not your weeping, 
That now lies sleeping 
Softly, now softly lies 
Sleeping. 

Sleep is a reconciling, 
A rest that peace begets ; 

Doth not the sun rise smiling, 
When fair at even he sets ? 



766 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Rest you then, rest, sad eyes — 


And up she raised her head ; 


Melt not in weeping, 


And, peering through the deep wood maze 


While she lies sleeping 


With a long, sharp, unearthly gaze, 


Softly, now softly lies 


" Will she not come ? " she said. 


Sleeping. 




John Dowland. 


Just then, the parting boughs between, 




A little maid's light form was seen, 




All breathless with her speed ; 


Cifc oni» ?Deotl). 


And, following close, a man came on 




(A portly man to look upon). 


Life and Death are sisters fair ; 


Who led a panting steed. 


Yes, they are a lovely pair. 




Life is sung in joyous song ; 


" Mother ! " the little maiden cried, 


While men do her sister wrong, 


Or e'er she reached the woman's side, 


Calling her severe and stern. 


And kissed her clay-cold cheek — 


While her heart for them doth burn ; 


" I have not idled in the town, 


Weave, then, weave a grateful wreath, 


But long went wandering up and down. 


For the sisters Life and Death. 


The minister to seek. 


If fair Life her sister lost. 


" They told me here, they told me there — 


On a boundless ocean tost, 


I think they mocked me everywhere ; 


She would rove in great unrest. 
Missing that warm loving breast. 
Now, when scared by wild alarms, 
She can seek her sister's arms — 


And when 1 found his home, 


And begged him on my bended knee 


To bring his book and come with me, 
Mother ! he would not come. 


To that tender bosom flee. 




Sink to sleep in ecstasy. 


" I told him how you dying lay. 


Anontmous. 


And could not go in peace away 




Without the minister ! 




I begged him, for dear Christ his sake, 




But oh ! my heart was fit to break — 


©lie ©reentooob Qljrift. 


Mother ! he would not stir. 


Outstretched beneath the leafy shade 


" So, though my tears were blinding me. 


Of Windsor Forest's deepest glade 


I ran back, fast as fast could be. 


A dying woman lay ; 


To come again to you ; 


Three little children round her stood, 


And here — close by — this squire I met. 


And there went up fi-om the greenwood 


Who asked (so mild) what made me fret ; 


A woful wail that day. 


And when 1 told him true, — 


" mother ! " was the mingled cry. 


" ' I will go with you, child,' he said. 


" mother, mother ! do not die, 


' God sends me to this dying-bed ' — 


And leave us all alone." 


Mother, he 's here, hard by." 


" My blessed babes ! " she tried to say — 


While thus the little maiden spoke, 


But the faint accents died away 


The man, his back against an oak. 


In a low sobbing moan. , 


Looked on with glistening eye. 


And then, life struggled hard with death. 


The bridle on his neck hung free, 


And fast and strong she drew her breath. 


With quivering flank and trembling knee. 



TEE SONG OF TEE DEVAS TO PRINCE SIDDARTEA. 767 


Pressed close his bonny bay ; 


"Who reined their coursers back. 


A statelier man — a statelier steed — 


Just as they found the long astray, 


Never on greensward paced, I rede, 


Who, in the heat of chase that day, 


Than those stood there that day. 


Had wandered from their track. 


So, while the little maiden spoke, 


But each man reined his pawing steed, 


The man, his back against an oak, 


And lighted down, as if agreed. 


Looked on with glistening eye 


In silence at his side ; 


And folded arms, and in his look 


And there, uncovered all, they stood — 


Something that, like a sermon-book. 


It was a wholesome sight and good 


Preached — " All is vanity." 


That day for mortal pride. 


But when the dying woman's face 


For of the noblest of the land 


Turned toward him with a wishful gaze, 


Was that deep-hushed, bare-headed band ; 


lie stepped to where she lay ; 


And, central in the ring, 


And, kneeling down, bent over h'er. 


By that dead pauper on the ground. 


Saying — " I am a minister. 


Her ragged orphans clinging round. 


My sister ! let us pray." 


Knelt their anointed king. 




Robert and Caroline Southet. 


And well, withouten book or stole 




(God's words were printed on his soul ! ) 




Into the dying ear 




He breathed, as 'twere an angel's strain. 


^\)Z Song of tfje JDctias to prince Qib- 


The things that unto life pertain, 


bflrtl)tt. 


And death's dark shadows clear. 




We are the voices of the wandering wind. 


He spoke of sinners' lost estate. 


Which moan for rest and rest can never find ; 


In Christ renewed, regenerate — 


Lo! as the wind is, so is mortal life. 


Of God's most blest decree, 


A moan, a sigh, a sob, a storm, a strife. 


That not a single soul should die 




Who turns repentant, with the cry 


Wherefore and whence we are ye cannot know. 


" Be merciful to me." 


Nor where life springs nor whither life doth go ; 




We are as ye are, ghosts from the inane. 


He spoke of trouble, pain, and toil, 


What pleasure have we of our changeful pain ? 


Endured but for a little while 




In patience, faith, and love — 


What pleasure hast thou of thy changeless bliss ? 


Sure, in God's own good time, to be 


Nay, if love lasted, there were joy in this ; 


Exchanged for an eternity 


But life's way is the wind's way, all these things 


Of happiness above. 


Are but brief voices breathed on shifting strings. 


Then — as the spirit ebbed away — 


Maya's son ! because we roam the earth 


He raised his hands and eyes to pray 


Moan we upon these strings : we make no mirth. 


That peaceful it might pass ; 


So many woes we see in many lands ; 


And then — the orphans' sobs alone 


So many streaming eyes and wringing hands. 


Were heard, and they knelt, every one. 




Close round on the green grass. 


Yet mock we while we wail, for, could they know, 




This life they cling to is but empty show ; 


Such was the sight their wandering eyes 


'Twere all as well to bid a cloud to stand, 


Beheld, in heart-struck, mute surprise. 


Or hold a running river with the hand. 



768 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


But thou that art to save, thine hour is nigh ! 


Lives of great men all remind us 


The sad world waiteth in its misery, 


We can make our lives sublime, 


The blind world stumbleth on its round of pain ; 


And, departing, leave behind us 


Rise, Maya's child ! wake ! slumber not again ! 


Footprints on the sands of time — 


We are the voices of the wandering wind ; 


Footprints that perhaps another, 


Wander thou, too, Prince, thy rest to find ; 


Sailing o'er life's solemn main 


Leave love for love of lovers, for woe's sake 


A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 


Quit state for sorrow, and deliverance make. 


Seeing, shall take heart again. 


So sigh we, passing o'er the silver strings. 

To thee who know'st not yet of earthly things ; 


Let us, then, be up and doing, 
With a heart for any fate ; 


So say we ; mocking, as we pass away. 

These lovely shadows wherewith thou dost play. 


Still achieving, still pursuing, 
Learn to labor and to wait. 


Edwin Arnold. 






HbNBT WADSWORTH LoNOrELLOW. 


a JJsalm of £ife. 




WHAT THE HEAET OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO 


iHg ?Ua2S among tlje IDeair. 


THE PSALMIST. 


My days among the dead are passed 


Tell me not, in mournful numbers. 


Around me I behold, 


" Life is but an empty dream ! " 


Where'er these casual eyes are cast, 


For the soul is dead that slumbers, 


The mighty minds of old ; 


And things are not what they seem. 


My never-failing friends are they. 




With whom I converse day by day. 


Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 




And the grave is not its goal ; 


With them I take delight in weal, 


" Dust thou art, to dust returnest," 


And seek relief in woe ; 


Was not spoken of the soul. 


And while I understand and feel 




How much to them I owe, 


Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 


My cheeks have often been bedewed 
With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 


Find us farther than to-day. 




My thoughts are with the dead ; with them 


Art is long, and time is fleeting. 


I live in long-past years ; 


And our hearts, though stout and brave, 


Their virtues love, their faults condemn. 


Still, like muffted drums, are beating 


Partake their hopes and fears. 


Funeral marches to the grave. 


And from their lessons seek and find 




Instruction with an humble mind. 


In the world's broad field of battle. 




In the bivouac of life. 


My hopes are with the dead ; anon 


Be not like dumb, driven cattle, 


My place with them will be, 


Be a hero in the strife ! 


And I with them shall travel on 


Ti-ust no future, howe'er pleasant I , 


Through all futurity : 
Yet leaving here a name, I trust, 


Let the dead past bury its dead ! 


That will not perish in the dust. 


Act — act in the living present ! 


JT 


Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 


Robert Southbt. 






KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 



7G9 



Sit boxDit, 6nir Soul. 

Sit down, sad soul, and count 

The moments flying ; 
Come — tell the sweet amount 

That 's lost by sighing ! 
How many smiles'? — a score? 
Then laugh and count no more ; 

For day is dying ! 

Lie down, sad soul, and sleep, 

And no more measure 
The flight of time, nor weep 

The loss of leisure ; 
But here, by this lone stream, 
Lie down with us, and dream 

Of starry treasure I 

We dream ; do thou the same ; 

We love — for ever ; 
We laugh, yet few we shame — 

The gentle never. 
Stay, then, tUl sorrow dies ; 
Then — hope and happy skies 

Are thine for ever ! 

Barrt Cornwall. 



Cife. 

We are born ; we laugh ; we weep ; 

We love ; we droop ; we die ! 
Ah ! wherefore do we laugh or weep ? 

Why do we live or die % 
Who knows that secret deep ? 

Alas, not I ! 

Why doth the violet spring 

Unseen by human eye ? 
Why do the radiant seasons bring 

Sweet thoughts that quickly fly ? 
Why do our fond hearts cling 

To things that die? 

We toil — through pain and wrong ; 

We fight — and fly ; 
We love ; we lose ; and then, ere long, 

Stone-dead we lie. 
life ! is all thy song 

" Endure and — die ? " 

Babiit Coknwall. 



5^ 



^n ^ngcl in tlie i^ottsc. 

How sweet it were, if without feeble fright. 
Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, 
An angel came to us, and we coiild bear 
To see him issue from the silent air 
At evening in our room, and bend on ours 
His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers 
News of dear friends, and children who have never 
Been dead indeed — as we shall know forever. 
Alas ! we think not what we daily see 
About our hearths — angels, that are to be, 
Or may be if they will, and we prepare 
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air ; 
A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings 
In unison with ours, breeding its future wings. 

Lbish HmNT. 



liing lobcrt of Sicilg. 

Egbert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 
And Valmond, emperor of AUemaine, 
Apparelled in magnificent attire, 
With retinue of many a knight and squire. 
On St. JohTi's eve, at vespers, proudly sat 
And heard the priests chant the Magnificat. 
And as he listened o'er and o'er again 
Repeated, like a burden or refrain, 
He caught the words, " Deposuit potentes 
De sede, et exalfavit Jiumiles;" 
And slowly lifting up his kingly head, 
He to a learned clerk beside him said, 
" What mean these words? " the clerk made an- 
swer meet, 
" He has put down the mighty from their seat. 
And has exalted them of low degree." 
Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, 
" 'Tis well that such seditious words are sung 
Only by priests and in the Latin tongue ; 
For unto priests and people be it known. 
There is no power can push me from my throne ! " 
And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep. 
Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep. 

When he awoke, it was already night ; 

Tlie church was empty, and there was no light, 



770 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Save where the lamps that glimmered, few and faint, 
Lighted a little space before some saint. 
He started from his seat and gazed around, 
But saw no living thing and heard no sound. 
He groped towards the door, but it was locked ; 
He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked. 
And uttered awful threatenings and complaints, 
And imprecations upon men and saints. 
The sounds reechoed from the roof and walls 
As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls. 

At length the sexton, hearing from without 
The tumult of the knocking and the shout. 
And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer, 
Came with his lantern, asking, " Who is there ? " 
Half choked with rage. King Robert fiercely said, 
" Open : 'tis I, the king ! Art thou afraid? " 
The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse, 
" This is some drunken vagabond, or worse ! " 
Turned the great key and flung the portal wide ; 
A man rushed by him at a single stride. 
Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak. 
Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke. 
But leaped into the blackness of the night. 
And vanished like a spectre from his sight. 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 
And Valmond, emperor of Allemaine, 
Despoiled of his magnificent attire, 
Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire. 
With sense of wrong and outrage desperate. 
Strode on and thundered at the palace gate : 
Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his 



To right and left each seneschal and page. 
And hurried up the broad and sounding stair. 
His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. 
From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed ; 
Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, 
Until at last he reached the banquet-room. 
Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume. 
There on the dais sat another king. 
Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring, 
King Robert's self in features, form, and height. 
But all transfigured with angelic light ! 
It was an angel ; and his presence there 
With a divine effulgence filled the air. 
An exaltation, piercing the disguise, 
Though none the hidden angel recognize. 



A moment speechless, motionless, amazed. 

The throneless monarch on the angel gazed. 

Who met his looks of anger and surprise 

With the divine compassion of his eyes ; 

Then said, " Who art thou ? and why com'st thou 

here ? " 
To which King Robert answered with a sneer, 
" I am the king, and come to claim my own 
From an impostor, who usurps my throne ! " 
And suddenly, at these audacious words. 
Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their 

swords ; 
The angel answered, with unruiSed brow, 
" Nay, not the king, but the king's jester ; thou 
Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape, 
And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape : 
Thou shalt obey my servants when they call. 
And wait upon my henchmen in the hall ! " 

Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and 

prayers. 
They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs ; 
A group of tittering pages ran before, 
And as they opened wide the folding-door. 
His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms. 
The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms. 
And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring 
With the mock plaudits of " Long live the king ! " 
Next morning, waking with the day's first beam. 
He said within himself, " It was a dream ! " 
But the straw rustled as he turned his head. 
There were the cap and bells beside his bed ; 
Around him rose the bare, discolored walls. 
Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls, 
And in the corner, a revolting shape. 
Shivering and chattering, sat the wretched ape. 
It was no dream ; the world he loved so much 
Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch I 

Days came and went ; and now returned again 

To Sicily the old Saturnian reign ; 

Under the angel's governance benign 

The happy island danced with corn and wine. 

And deep within the mountain's burning breast 

Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. 

Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate. 

Sullen and silent and disconsolate. 

Dressed in the motley garb that jesters wear. 

With looks bewildered and a vacant stare. 



KWG ROBERT OF SICILY. 



771 



Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn, 
By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn. 
His only friend the ape, his only food 
What others left, — he still was unsubdued. 
And when the angel met him on his way, 
And half in earnest, half in jest, would say, 
Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel 
The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, 
" Art thou the king f " the passion of his woe 
Burst from him in resistless overflow. 
And lifting high his forehead, he would fling 
The haughty answer back, " I am, I am the king ! " 

Almost three years were ended ; when there came 

Ambassadors of great repute and name 

From Valmond, emperor of AUemaine, 

Unto King Robert, saying tliat Pope Urbane 

By letter summoned them forthwith to come 

On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. 

The angel with great joy received his guests. 

And gave them presents of embroidered vests. 

And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined. 

And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. 

Then he departed with them o'er the sea 

Into the lovely land of Italy, 

Whose loveliness was more resplendent made 

By the mere passing of that cavalcade. 

With plumes, and cloaks, and housings,- and the 

stir 
Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur. 

And lo ! among the menials, in mock state. 

Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait. 

His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind, 

The solemn ape demurely perched behind. 

King Robert rode, making huge merriment 

In aU the country towns through which they went. 

The pope received them with great pomp, and 

blare 
Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's square, 
Giving his benediction and embrace. 
Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. 
While with congratulations and with prayers 
He entertained the angel unawares, 
Robert, the jester, bursting through the crowd. 
Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud : 
" I am the king ! Look and behold in me 
Robert, your brother, king of Sicily ! 



This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes. 

Is an impostor in a king's disguise. 

Do you not know me ? does no voice within 

Answer my cry, and say we are akin?" 

The pope in silence, but with troubled mien. 

Gazed at the angel's countenance serene ; 

The emperor, laughing, said, " It is strange sport 

To keep a madman for thy fool at court ! " 

And the poor, baffled jester in disgrace 

Was hustled back among the populace. 

In solemn state the holy week went by. 

And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky ; 

The presence of an angel, with its light, 

Before the sun rose, made the city bright. 

And with new fervor filled the hearts of men. 

Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. 

Even the jester, on his bed of straw, 

With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw ; 

He felt within a power unfelt before, 

And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor, 

He heard the rushing garments of the Lord 

Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward. 

And now the visit ending, and once more 

Valmond returning to the Danube's shore. 

Homeward the angel journeyed, and again 

The land was made resplendent with his train, 

Flashing along the towns of Italy 

Unto Salerno, and from there by sea. 

And when once more within Palermo's wall, 

And, seated on his throne in his great hall. 

He heard the Angelus from convent towers, 

As if the better world conversed with ours. 

He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher. 

And with a gesture bade the rest retire ; 

And when they were alone, the angel said, 

"Art thou the king?" Then bowing down his 

head. 
King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast. 
And meekly answered him : " Thou knowest best ! 
My sins as scarlet are ; let me go hence, 
And in some cloister's school of penitence, 
Across those stones that pave the way to heaven 
Walk barefoot till my guilty soul is shriven ! " 
The angel smiled, and from his radiant face 
A holy light illumined all the place. 
And through the open window, loud and clear. 
They heard the monks chant in the chapel near, 



773 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Above the stir and tumult of the street : 


The sun sets, the shadow flies. 


" He has put down the mighty from their seat, 


The gourd consumes — and man he dies ! 


And has exalted them of low degree ! " 




And through the chant a second melody 
Kose like the throbbing of a single string : 
" I am an angel, and thou art the king ! " 


Like to the grass that 's newly sprung. 
Or like a tale that 's new begun. 
Or like the bird that 's here to-day. 




Or like the pearled dew of May, 


King Robert, who was standing near the throne, 


Or like an hour, or like a span. 


Lifted his eyes, and lo ! he was alone ! 


Or like the singing of a swan — 


But all apparelled as in days of old. 


E'en such is man, who lives by breath, 


With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold ; 


Is here, now there, in life and death. — 


And when his courtiers came they found him 


The grass withers, the tale is ended. 


there 


The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended, 


Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent 


The hour is short, the span is long, 


prayer. 

Henry Wadsworth LoNorELLow. 


The swan 's near death — man's life is done ! 




Like to a bubble in the brook. 




Or in a glass much like a look. 


me. 


Or like a shuttle in a weaver's hand, 


Or like the writing on the sand. 


Like to the falling of the star. 
Or as the flights of eagles are. 
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue. 
Or silver drops of morning dew. 
Or like a wind that chafes the flood, 
Or bubbles which on water stood — 
E'en such is man, whose borrowed light 
Is straight called in, and paid to-night. 


Or like a thought, or like a dream, 
Or like the gliding of a stream ; 
E'en such is man, who lives by breath. 
Is here, now there, in life and death. 
The bubble 's out, the look 's forgot. 
The shuttle 's flung, the writing 's blot. 
The thought is past, the dream is gone. 
The water glides — man's life is done ! 


The wind blows out, the bubble dies, 




The spring entombed in autumn lies, 


Like to a blaze of fond delight. 


The dew dries up, the star is shot. 


Or like a morning clear and bright. 


The flight is past — and man forgot ! 


Or like a frost, or like a shower. 


Hbnby King. 


Or like the pride of Babel's tower. 
Or like the hour that guides the time. 




Or like to Beauty in her prime ; 




E'en such is man, whose glory lends 


iHcin's itlortalitg. 


That life a blaze or two, and ends. 
The morn 's o'ercast, joy turned to pain. 


Like as the damask rose you see. 


The frost is thawed, dried up the rain. 


Or like the blossom on the tree. 


The tower falls, the hour is run. 


Or like the dainty flower in May, 


The beauty lost — man's life is done ! 


Or like the morning of the day. 




Or like the sun, or like the shade, 


Like to an arrow from the bow. 


Or like the gourd which Jonas had — 


Or lil^e swift course of water-flow. 


E'en such is man whose thread ts spun. 


Or like that time 'twixt flood and ebb. 


Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. 


Or like the spider's tender web, 


The rose withers, the blossom blasteth. 


Or like a race, or like a goal. 


The flower fades, the morning hasteth, 


Or like the dealing of a dole ; 



FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 



773 



E'en such is man, whose brittle state 

Is always subject unto Fate. 
The arrow 's shot, the flood soon spent, 
The time 's no time, the web soon rent, 
The race soon run, the goal soon won, 
The dole soon dealt — man's life is done ! 

Like to the lightning from the sky. 
Or like a post that quick doth hie. 
Or like a quaver in a short song. 
Or like a journey three days long, 
Or like the snow when summer 's come. 
Or like the pear, or like the plum ; 
E'en such is man, who heaps up sorrow. 
Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow. 
The lightning 's past, the post must go. 
The song is short, the journey 's so. 
The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall. 
The snow dissolves — and so must all ! 

Simon Wastbl. 



i^ootstc:ps of <;^ngcls. 

When the hours of day are numbered. 

And the voices of the night 
Wake the better soul that slumbered 

To a holy, calm delight — 

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
And, like phantoms grim and tall, 

Shadows from the fitful fire-light 
Dance upon the parlor-wall : 

Then the forms of the departed 

Enter at the open door — 
The beloved, the true-hearted, 

Come to visit me once more : 

He, the young and strong, who cherished 
Noble longings for the strife. 

By the road-side fell and perished. 
Weary with the march of life ! 

They, the holy ones and weakly, 
Who the cross of suffering bore, 

Folded their pale hands so meekly. 
Spake with us on earth no more ! 



And with them the being beauteous 
Who unto my youth was given, 

More than all things else to love me, 
And is now a saint in heaven. 

With a slow and noiseless footstep 
Comes that messenger divine, 

Takes the vacant chair beside me. 
Lays her gentle hand in mine ; 

And she sits and gazes at me 
With those deep and tender eyes, 

Like the stars, so still and saint-like 
Looking downward from the skies. 

Uttered not, yet comprehended. 
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer. 

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended. 
Breathing from her lips of air. 

Oh, though oft depressed and lonely. 

All my fears are laid aside, 
If I but remember only 

Such as these have lived and died ! 

HeNBT WaDSWOETH LONGrBLLOW. 



)e Sunrise newer £a\\tb us get. 

Upon the sadness of the sea 
The sunset broods regretfully ; 
From the far lonely spaces, slow 
Withdraws the wistful after-glow. 

So out of life the splendor dies ; 
So darken all the happy skies ; 
So gathers twilight, cold and stern ; 
But overhead the planets burn ; 

And up the east another day 
Shall chase the bitter dai'k away ; 
What though our eyes with tears be wet ? 
The sunrise never failed us yet. 

The blush of dawn may yet restore 
Our light and hope and joy once more. 
Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget 
That sunrise never failed us yet ! 

Cema Thaxter. 



774 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



(Elie Surial of tlje |)oet. 

RICHARD HENRY DANA. 

In the old churchyard of his native town, 
And in the ancestral tomb beside the wall, 
We laid him in the sleep that comes to all, 
And left him to his rest and his renown. 
The snow was falling as if heaven dropped down 
White flowers of paradise to strew his pall : — 
The dead around him seemed to wake, and call 
His name, as worthy of so white a crown. 
And now the moon is shining on the scene. 
And the broad sheet of snow is written o'er 
With shadows cruciform of leafless trees, 
As once the winding-sheet of Saladin 
With chapters of the Koran ; but, ah ! more 
Mysterious and triumphant signs are these. 

Henry Wadsworth LoNorELLow. 



9[|)on roert louclg on tl)S Bier. 

They say that thou wert lovely on thy bier. 
More lovely than in life ; that when the thrall 
Of eai'th was tossed, it seemed as though a pall 
Of years were lifted, and thou didst appear 
Such as of old amidst thy home's calm sphere 
Thou sat'st, a kindly presence felt by all 
In joy or grief, from morn to evening fall. 
The peaceful genius of that mansion dear. 
Was it the craft of all-persuading love 
That wrought this marvel ? or is death indeed 
A mighty matter, gifted from above 
With alchemy benign, to wounded hearts 
Ministering thus, by quaint and subtle arts. 
Strange comfort, whereon after-thought may feed. 
William Sidney Walker. 



Sonnet. 

Op mortal glory, soon darkened ray ! 

winged joys of man, more swift than wind ! 

fond desires, which in our fancies st,ray ! 

trait'rous hopes, which do our judgments blind ! 

Lo, in a flash that light is gone away 

Which dazzle did each eye, delight each mind. 



And, with that sun from whence it came com- 
bined, 
Now makes more radiant heaven's eternal day. 
Let Beauty now bedew her cheeks with tears; 
Let widowed Music only roar and groan ; 
Poor Virtue, get thee wings and mount the spheres, 
For dwelling-place on earth for thee is none ! 
Death hath thy temple razed, Love's empire foiled, 
The world of honor, worth, and sweetness spoiled. 



William Drummond. 



^ tois!). 



I ask not that my bed of death 
From bands of greedy heirs be free; 

For these besiege the latest breath 
Of fortune's favored sons, not me. 

I ask not each kind soul to keep 

Tearless, when of my death he heai"s. 

Let those who will, if any, weep ! 

There are worse plagues on earth than tears. 

I ask but that my death may find 

The freedom to my life denied ; 
Ask but the follv of mankind 

Then, then at last, to quit my side. 

Spare me the whispering, crowded room, 
The friends who come, and gape, and go ; 

The ceremonious air of gloom — 
All, which makes death a hideous show ! 

Nor bring, to see me cease to live, 
Some doctor full of phrase and fame, 

To shake his sapient he;td, and give 
The ill he can not cure a name. 

Nor fetch, to take the accustomed toll 
Of the poor sinner bound for death, 

His brother-doctor of the soul, 
To canvass with official breath 

The future and its viewless things — 

That undiscovered mystery 
Which one who feels death's winnowing wings 

Must needs read clearer, sure, than he ! 



THE WILL. 



775 



Bring none of these ; but let me be, 
While all around in silence lies, 

Moved to the window near, and see 
Once more, before my dying eyes, 

Bathed in the sacred dews of morn 
The wide aerial landscape spread — 

The world which was ere I was born. 
The world which lasts when I am dead ; 

Which never was the friend of one. 
Nor promised love it could not give. 

But lit for all its generous sun, 
And lived itself, and made us live. 

There let me gaze, till I become 
In soul, with what I gaze on, wed ! 

To feel the universe my home ; 
To have before my mind — instead 

Of the sick-room, the mortal strife, 
The turmoil for a little breath — 

The pure eternal course of life, 
Not human combatings with death ! 

Thus feeling, gazing, let me grow 
Composed, refreshed, ennobled, clear ; 

Then willing let my spirit go 

To work or wait elsewhere or here ! 

Matthew Arnold. 



tl)e toll. 

Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe, 
Great Love, some legacies : here I bequeath 
Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see, 
If they be blind, then Love, I give them thee ; 
My tongue to Fame ; to ambassadors mine ears ; 

To women, or the sea, my tears; 
Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore. 
By making me serve her who had twenty more. 
That I should give to none but such as had too 
much before. 

My constancy I to the planets give. 
My truth to them who at the court do live ; 
Mine ingenuity and openness 
To Jesuits ; to buffoons my pensiveness ; 
My silence to any who abroad hath been; 
My money to a Capuchin. 



Thou, Love, taught'st me, by appointing me 
To love there where no love received can be. 
Only to give to such as have an incapacity. 

My faith I give to Roman Catholics ; 
All my good works unto the schismatics 
Of Amsterdam ; my best civility 
And courtship, to an university ; 
My modesty I give to shoulders bare ; 
My patience let gamesters share. 
Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me 
Love her that holds my love disparity. 
Only to give to those that count my gifts indig- 
nity. 

I give my reputation to those 

Which were my friends ; my industry to foes ; 

To schoolmen I bequeath my doubtfulness ; 

My sickness to physicians, or excess ; 

To Nature, all that I in rhyme have writ ; 

And to my company my wit ; 
Thou, Love, by making me adore 
Her who begot this love in me before, 
Taught'st me to make as though I gave, when I 
did but restore. 

To him for whom the passing-bell next tolls 
I give my physic-books ; my written rolls 
Of moral counsels I to Bedlam give ; 
My brazen medals, unto them which live 
In want of bread ; to them which pass among 

All foreigners, my English tongue. 
Thou, Love, by making me love one 
Who thinks her friendship a fit portion 
For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus dispropor- 
tion. 

Therefore I'll give no more ; but I'll undo 
The world by dying ; because love dies too. 
Then all your beauties will be no more worth 
Than gold in mines, where none doth draw it 

forth ; 
And all your graces no more use shall have 

Than a sun-dial on a grave. 
Thou, Love, taughtest me, by making me 
Love her who doth neglect both me and 
thee. 
To invent and practise this one way to annihilate 
all three. 

John Donne. 



776 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Cincs on a Skeleton. 

Behold this ruin ! — 'Twas a skull 
Once of ethereal spirit full ! 
This narrow cell was life's retreat ; 
This space was thought's mysterious seat. 
What beauteous pictures filled this spot, 
What dreams of pleasures long forgot ! 
Nor love, nor joy, nor hope, nor fear, 
Has left one trace of record here. 

Beneath this mouldering canopy 

Once shone the bright and busy eye. 

But start not at the dismal void ; 

If social love that eye employed. 

If with no lawless fire it gleamed, 

But through the dew of kindness beamed. 

That eye shall be forever bright 

When stars and suns have lost their light. 

Here, in this silent cavern, hung 

The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue. 

If falsehood's honey it disdained, 

And, where it could not praise, was chained — 

If bold in virtue's cause it spoke, 

Yet gentle concord never broke. 

That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee 

When death unveils eternity. 

Say, did these fingers delve the mine, 
Or with its envied rubies shine f 
To hew the rock or wear the gem 
Can nothing now avail to them ; 
But if the page of truth they sought. 
Or comfort to the mourner brought. 
These hands a richer meed shall claim 
Than all that waits on wealth or fame. 

Avails it whether bare or shod 
These feet the path of duty trod ? 
If from the bowers of joy they fled 
To soothe affliction's humble bed — 
If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned, 
And home to virtue's lap returned, , 
Those feet with angel's wings shall vie. 
And tread the palace of the sky. 

Anonymous. 



illortalita. 

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 
Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, 
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave. 
He passes from life to his rest in the grave. 

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, 

Be scattered around and together be laid ; 

And the young and the old, and the low and the 

high, 
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. 

The child that a mother attended and loved. 
The mother that infant's affection that proved, 
The husband that mother and infant that blessed, 
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest. 

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose 

eye, 
Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs are by ; 
And the memory of those that beloved her and 

praised. 
Are alike from the minds of the living erased. 

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne. 
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, 
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, 
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. 

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap. 
The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the 

steep. 
The beggar that wandered in search of his bread, 
Have faded away like the grass that we tread. 

The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven. 
The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven. 
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just. 
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 

So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed. 
That wither away to let others succeed ; 
So the multitude comes, even those we behold. 
To repeat every tale that hath often been told. 

For we are the same that our fathers haA^e been ; 
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen, — 



IJSr Off AH THUS CATHEDRAL. 777 


We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, 


The organ's dreamy undertone. 


And %Ye run the same course that our fathers have 


The murmur while they pray; 


run. 


And I sit here alone, alone, 




And have no word to say ; 


The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would 


Cling closer shadows, darker yet, 


think: 


And heart be happy to forget. 


From the death we are shrinking from, they too 




would shrink ; 


And now, the mystic silence — and they kneel, 


To the life we are clinging to, they too would 


A young priest lifts a star of gold, — 


cling ; 


And then the sudden organ-peal ! 


But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. 


Ave and Ave ! and the music rolled 




Along the carven wonder of the choir 


They loved, but their story we cannot unfold ; 


Thrilled canopy and spire. 


They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold ; 


Up till the echoes mingled with the song ; 


They grieved, bat no wail from their slumbers 


And now a boy's flute-note that rings 


may come ; 


Shrill, sweet, and long ; 


They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is 


Ave and Ave, louder and more loud 


dumb. 


Rises the strain he sings 




Upon the angel's wings ! 


They died, — ay! they died: and we things that 


Eight up to God ! 


are now. 




Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, 


And you that sit there in the lowliest place. 


Who make in their dwelling a transient abode. 


With lips that hardly dare to move. 


Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage 


You with the old, sad, furrowed face 


road. 


Dream on your dream of love ! 




For you, glide down the music's swell 


Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain. 


The folding arms of peace ; 


Are mingled together like sunshine and rain ; 


For me, wild thoughts I dare not tell, 


And the smile and the tear and the song and the 


Desires that never cease. 


dirge 


For you, the calm, the angel's breast, 


Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 


Whose dim foreknowledge is at rest ; 




For me, the beat of broken wings. 


'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath. 


The old unanswered questionings. 


From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, 


Rennell Kodd. 


From the gilded saloon to the bier and the 




shroud, — 




Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud f 




William Knox. 


^gmn of tlic (EI)urcli|)orb. 




Ah me ! this is a sad and silent city : 




Let me walk softly o'er it, and survey 


Jfn €l)artres €otliebral. 


Its grassy streets with melancholy pity ! 




Where are its children ? wh ere their gleesome play ? 


Through yonder windows stained and old 


Alas ! their cradled rest is cold and deep, — 


Four level rays of red and gold 


Their playthings are thrown by, and they asleep. 


Strike down the twilight dim, 




Four lifted heads are aureoled 


This is pale beauty's bower ; but where the beautiful, 


Of the sculptured cherubim, 


Whom I have seen come forth at evening's hours. 


And soft like sounds on faint winds blown. 


Leading their aged friends, with feelings dutiful, 


Of voices dying far away. 


Amid the wreaths of spring to gather flowers 1 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Alas ! no flowers are here but flowers of death, 
And those who once were sweetest sleep beneath. 

This is a populous place ; but where the bust- 
ling— 

The crowded buyers of the noisy mart — 
The lookers-on, — the snowy garments rustling, — 

The money-changers, and the men of art ? 
Business, alas ! hath stopped in mid career, 
And none are anxious to resume it here. 

This is the home of grandeur : where are they, — 
The rich, the great, the glorious, and the wise ? 

Where are the trappings of the proud, the gay, — 
The gaudy guise of human butterflies ? 

Alas ! all lowly lies each lofty brow, 

And the green sod dizens their beauty now. 

This is a place of refuge and repose. 

Where are the poor, the old, the weary wight, 
The scorned, the humble, and the man of woes. 

Who wept for morn, and sighed again for night ? 
Their sighs at last have ceased, and here they 

sleep 
Beside their scorners, and forget to weep. 

This is a place of gloom : where are the gloomy ? 

The gloomy are not citizens of death — 
Approach and look, where the long grass is 
plumy ; 

See them above ! they are not found beneath ! 
For these low denizens, with artful wiles. 
Nature, in flowers, contrives her mimic smiles. 

This is a place of sorrow : friends have met 
And mingled tears o'er those who answered not ; 

And where are they whose eyelids then were wet f 
Alas ! their griefs, their tears, are all forgot ; 

They, too, are landed in this silent city. 

Where there is neither love, nor tears, nor pity. 

This is a place of fear : the firmest eye 
Hath quailed to see its shadowy dreariness ; 

But Christian hope, and heavenly prospects high. 
And earthly cares, and nature's wearipess. 

Have made the timid pilgrim cease to fear. 

And long to end his painful journey here. 

John Bethune. 



fiines toritten in Hicljtttonb QTljtjrci)- 
garb, ^orksl)ire. 

" It is good for us to be here : if thou wilt, let us make 
here three tabernacles ; one for thee, and one for Moses, and 
one for Elias." — Matt. xvii. 4. 

Methinks it is good to be here ; 
If thou wilt, let us build — but for whom? 

Nor Elias nor Moses appear, 
But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, 
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. 

Shall we build to Ambition ? ah, no ! 
Affrighted, he shrinketh away ; 

For, see ! they would pin him below, 
In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay, 
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. 

To Beauty ? ah, no ! — she forgets 
The charms which she wielded before — 

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets 
The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, 
For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it 
wore. 

Shall we build to the purple of Pride — 
The trappings which dizen the proud ? 

Alas ! they are all laid aside ; 
And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed 
But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the 
shroud. 

To Riches ? alas ! 'tis in vain ; 
Who hid, in their turn have been hid : 

The treasures are squandered again ; 
And here in the grave are all metals forbid, 
But the tinsel that shines on the dark cofiin-lid. 

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford — 
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? 

Ah ! here is a plentiful board ! 
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer. 
And none but the worm is a reveller here. 

Shall we build to Affection and Love ? 
Ah, no ! they have withered and died, 

Or fled with the spirit above ; 
Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side. 
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. 



THANATOPSIS. 



779 



Unto Sorrow? — The dead cannot grieve; 
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, 

Which compassion itself could relieve ! 
Ah ! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor 

fear — 
Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here ! 

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow ? 
Ah no ! for his empire is known. 

And here there are trophies enow ! 
Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark 

stone. 
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown. 

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build. 
And look for the sleepers around us to rise ; 

The second to Faith, that insures it fulfilled ; 

And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice. 

Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the 

skies. 

Herbert Knowles. 



To him who in the love of nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language ; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 
Into his darker musings with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart — 
Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
To nature's teachings, while from all around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
Comes a still voice : Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground. 
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears, 
Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall 

claim 
Thy growth to be resolved to earth again ; 



And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 

Thine individual being, shalt thou go 

To mix for ever with the elements — 

To be a brother to the insensible rock. 

And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain 

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good — 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between — 
The venerable woods — rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green ; and, poured round 

all, 
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun. 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death. 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings 
Of morning; traverse Barca's desert sands, 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
Save his own dashings — yet, the dead are there ; 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 
So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure 1 All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall 

come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glides away, the sons of men, 
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
In the full strength of years — matron, and maid. 



780 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man, — 
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side 
By those who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan which moves 
To that mysterious realm where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death. 
Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night. 
Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and 

soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

William Cullen Brtant. 



®l), tnag S \a\n tlje (El)oir Jfnmsible! 

Oh, may I join the choir invisible 

Of those immortal dead who live again 

In minds made better by their presence ; live 

In pulses stirred to generosity. 

In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 

Of miserable aims that end with self. 

In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like 

stars, 
And with their mild persistence urge men's 

minds 
To vaster issues. So to live is heaven ; 
To make undying music in the world. 
Breathing a beauteous order that controls 
With growing sway the growing life of man. 
So we inherit that sweet purity 
For which we struggled, failed, and agonized. 
With widening retrospect that bred despair. 
Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, 
A vicious parent shaming still its child. 
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved ; 
Its discords quenched by meeting harmonies. 
Die in the large and charitable air. 
And all our rarer, better, truer self, 
Tliat sobbed religiously in yearning song. 
That watched to ease the burden of the world, 
Laboriously tracing what must be, ' 
And what may yet be better, — saw within 
A worthier image for the sanctuary, 
And shaped it forth before the multitude. 



Divinely human, raising worship so 
To higher reverence more mixed with love, — 
That better self shall live till human Time 
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky 
Be gathered like a scroU within the tomb, 
Unread forever. This is life to come, — 
Which martyred men have made more glorious 
For us, who strive to follow. May I reach 
That purest heaven, — be to other souls 
The cup of strength in some great agony, 
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, 
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, 
Be the sweet presence of a good difEused, 
And in difEusion evermore intense ! 
So shall I join the choir invisible. 
Whose music is the gladness of the world. 

George Eliot. 



ittcbitations of a ^inboo |)rince axUs 
gkcptic. 

All the world over, I wonder, in lands that I never 

have trod, 
Are the people eternally seeking for the signs and 

the steps of a God f 
Westward across the ocean and northward ayont 

the snow, 
Do they all stand gazing, as ever, and what do the 

wisest know ? 

Here, in this mystical India, the deities hover and 

swarm. 
Like the wild bees heard in the tree-tops or the 

gusts of a gathering storm. 
In the air men hear then- voices, their feet on the 

rocks are seen, 
Yet we all say : " Whence is the message, and what 

may the wonders mean f " 

A million shrines stand open and ever the censer 

swings. 
As they bow to a mystic symbol or the figures of 

ancient kings ; 
And the incense rises ever, and rises the endless 

cry 
Of those who are heavy laden, and of cowards loath 

to die. 



OYER THE RIVER. 



781 



For the Destiny drives us together, like deer in a 

pass of the hills ; 
Above is the sky, and around us the sound and the 

shot that kills. 
Pushed by a Power we see not, and stmck by a 

hand unknown. 
We pray to the trees for shelter and press our lips 

to a stone. 

The trees wave a shadowy answer, and the rock 

frowns hollow and grim, 
And the form and the nod of a demon are caught 

in the twUight dim ; 
And we look to the sunlight falling afar on the 

mountain-crest. 
Is there never a path runs upward to a refuge there 

and a rest % 

The path, ah ! who has shown it, and which is the 

faithful guide ? 
The haven, ah ! who has known it ? for steep is the 

mountain-side. 
Forever the shot strikes surely, and ever the wasted 

breath 
Of the praying multitude rises, whose answer is 

only death. 

Here are the tombs of my kinsfolk, the -first of an 

ancient name, 
Chiefs who were slain on the war-field and women 

who died in flame : 
They are gods, these kings of the foretime, they 

are spirits who guard our race ; 
Ever I watch and worship, they sit with a marble 

face. 

x\nd the myriad idols around me and the legion of 

muttering priests, 
The revels and riots unholy, the dark, imspeakable 

feasts. 
What have they wrung from the silence ? Hath 

even a whisper come 
Of the secret — Whence and Whither? Alas! for 

the gods are dumb. 

Shall I list to the word of the English, who come 

from the uttermost sea? 
"The secret, hath it been told you, and what is 

your message to me?" 



It is naught but the wide-world story, how the 

earth and the heavens began, 
How the gods are glad and angry, and Deity once 

was man. 

I had thought : " Perchance in the cities where the 

rulers of India dwell, 
Whose orders flash from the far land, who girdle 

the earth with a spell, 
They have fathomed the depths we float on, or 

measured the unknown main." 
Sadly they turn from the venture and say that the 

quest is vain. 

Is life, then, a dream and delusion, and where shall 

the dreamer awake? 
Is the world seen like shadows on water, and what 

if the mirror break ? 
Shall it pass as a camp that is struck, as a tent that 

is gathered and gone 
From the sands that were lamp-lit at eve, and at 

morning are level and lone ? 

Is there naught in the heaven above, whence the 

rain and the levin are hurled, 
But the wind that is swept round us by the rush of 

the rolling world ? 
The wind that shall scatter my ashes, and bear me 

to sUence and sleep. 
With the dirge and sounds of lamenting, and voices 

of women who weep. 

Sib Alpbbd Comtns Lyat.t,. 



Over the river they beckon to me. 

Loved ones who 've crossed to the farther side ; 
The gleam of their snowy robes I see. 

But their voices are lost in the rushing tide. 
There 's one with ringlets of sunny gold. 

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue ; 
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold. 

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. 
We saw not the angels who met him there. 

The gates of the city we could not see : 
Over the river, over the river. 

My brother stands waiting to welcome me. 



r83 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Over the river the boatman pale 

CaiTied another, the household pet ; 
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale, 

Darling Minnie ! I see her yet. 
She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, 

And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; 
We felt it glide from the silver sands, 

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark ; 
We know she is safe on the farther side, 

Where all the ransomed and angels be: 
Over the river, the mystic river. 

My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 

For none return from those quiet shores. 

Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; 
We hear the dip of the golden oars, 

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail ; 
And lo ! they have passed from our yearning heart. 

They cross the stream and are gone for aye. 
We may not sunder the veil apart ' 

That hides from our vision the gates of day ; 
We only know that their barks no more 

May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ; 
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore. 

They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold 

Is flushing river and hill and shore, 
I shall one day stand by the water cold. 

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar ; 
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail, 

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand, 
1 shall pass from sight with the boatman pale. 

To the better shore of the spirit-land. 
I shall know the loved who have gone before. 

And joyfully sweet will the meeting be. 
When over the river, the peaceful river. 

The angel of death shall carry me. 

Nancy Priest WAKEriELD. 



Cife. 

Life ! I know not what thou art, 
But know that thou and I must part ; 
And when, or how, or where we met, 
I own to me 's a secret yet. 
But this I know : when thou art fled. 
Where'er they lay these limbs, this head, 



No clod so valueless shall be 
As all that then remains of me. 
Oh, whither, whither dost thou fly, 
Where bend unseen thy trackless course, 
And in this strange divorce. 
Ah, tell me where I must seek this compound I ? 

To the vast ocean of empyreal flame, 
From whence thy essence came. 
Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed 
From matter's base encumbering weed ? 
Or dost thou, hid from sight. 
Wait, like some spell-bound knight. 

Through blank oblivious years the appointed hour 

To break thy trance and reassume thy power? 

Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be ? 

Oh, say, what art thou, when no more thou 'rt thee ? 

Life ! we've been long together 
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear ; 
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; 
Then steal away, give little warning, 
Choose thine own time; 
Say not Good-night, — but in some brighter clime 
Bid me Good-morning. 

Anna Lbtitia Barbauld. 



g[I)e SDcatl) of tl}c birtnous. 

Sweet is the scene when virtue dies ! 

When sinks a righteous soul to rest. 
How mildly beam the closing eyes. 

How gently heaves th' expiring breast ! 

So fades a summer cloud away. 

So sinks the gale when storms are o'er. 

So gently shuts the eye of day. 
So dies a wave along the shore. 

Triumphant smiles the victor brow, 
Fanned by some angel's purple wing ; 

Where is, grave ! thy victory now ? 
And where, insidious death ! thy sting ? 

Farewell conflicting joys and fears. 
Where light and shade alternate dwell ! 

How bright tn' unchanging morn appears ! 
Farewell, inconstant world, farewell ! 



HE WHO DIED AT AZAN. 783 


Its duty done, — as sinks the day, 


Yet I smile and whisper this : 


Light from its load the spirit flies ; 


I am not the thing you kiss. 


While heaven and earth combine to say, 


Cease your tears, and let it lie ; 


" Sweet is the scene when virtue dies ! " 


It was mine — it is not I. 


Anna Letitia Bikbauld. 






Sweet friends ! what the women lave 




For its last bed of the grave. 


tOoulb ^on be ^onng again? 


Is a hut which I am quitting. 
Is a garment no more fitting, 


Would you be young again ? 


Is a cage from which, at last, 


So would not 1 ! 


Like a hawk my soul hath passed ; 


One tear to memory given. 


Love the inmate, not the room. 


Onward I'd hie. 


The wearer, not the garb ; the plume 


Life's dark flood forded o'er. 


Of the falcon, not the bars 


All but at rest on shore, 


That kept him from the splendid stai-s ! 


Saj"-, would you plunge once more, 




With home so nigh ? 


Loving friends ! be wise, and dry 




Straightway every weeping eye. 


If you might, would you now 


What ye lift upon the bier 


Retrace your way ? 


Is not worth a wistful tear. 


Wander through stormy wilds. 


'Tis an empty sea-shell, one 


Paint and astray ? 


Out of which the pearl has gone. 


Night's gloomy watches fled. 


The shell is broken, it lies there ; 


Morning all beaming red. 


The pearl, the all, the soul, is here. 


Hope's smiles around us shed, 


'Tis an earthen jar whose lid 


Heavenward — away ! 


Allah sealed, the while it hid 


Where, then, are those dear ones. 


That treasure of his treasury, 

A mind that loved him : let it lie ! 


Our Joy and delight ? 


Let the shard be earth's once more. 


Dear and more dear, though now 
Hidden from sight 1 


Since the gold shines in his store ! 


Where they rejoice to be. 




There is the land for me : 


Allah glorious ! Allah good ! 


Fly, time, ily speedily ! 


Now Thy world is understood ; 


Come, life and light ! 


Now the long, long wonder ends ! 


Lady Naienb. 


Yet ye weep, my erring friends. 




While the man whom ye call dead, 




In unspoken bliss instead. 




Lives and loves you ; lost, 'tis trae. 


^c U)l)o JDieir at !^^an. 


By such light as shines for you ; 




But, in the light ye cannot see. 
Of unfulfilled felicity. 
In enlarging paradise 


He who died at Azan sends 
This to comfort all his friends : 


Faithful friends ! It lies, I know, 


Lives a life that never dies. 


Pale and white and cold as snow : 




And ye say, " Abdullah 's dead ! " 


Farewell, friends ! yet not farewell — 


Weeping at the feet and head. 


Where I am ye too shall dwell. 


I can see your falling tears, 


I am gone before your face. 


I can hear your sighs and prayers ; 


A moment's time, a little space. 



784 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



When ye come where I have stept, 
Ye will wonder why ye wept ; 
Ye will know, by wise love taught, 
That here is all and there is naught. 
Weep awhile, if ye are fain. 
Sunshine still must follow rain. 
Only not at death ; for death. 
Now I know, is that first breath 
Which our souls draw when we enter 
Life which is of all life centre. 

Be ye certain, all seems love. 
Viewed from Allah's throne above ! 
Be ye stout of heart and come 
Bravely onward to your home ! 
La Allah ilia Allah ! yea ! 
Thou love divine ! Thou love alway I 

He that died at Azan gave 

This to those who made his grave. 

Edwin Arnold. 



©legg tOritten in a CHounttQ QTljtttri:!)- 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day; 

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. 

And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the 
sight. 

And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower. 
The moping owl does to the moon complain , 

Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient, solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. 
Where heaves the turf in many a iaouldering 
heap, 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 



The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. 
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built 
shed, 
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly 
bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall bum. 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield. 
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 

How jocund did they drive their team a-field ! 
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy 

stroke ! 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil. 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await alike th' inevitable hour. — 
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault. 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted 
vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn, or animated bust. 
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust. 
Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire — 

Hands that the rod of empire might have 
swayed, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre ; 

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page. 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 

Chill penury repressed their noble rage. 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 




>.T^ -^jm 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 



785 



Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood — 

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest, 
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 

Th' applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. 
And read their history in a nation's eyes. 

Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined — 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their Vay. 

Yet even these bones from insult to protect, 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh. 

With imcouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
decked. 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered muse, 
The place of fame and elegy supply ; 

And many a holy text around she strews, 
That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies. 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

53 



For thee who, mindful of th' unhonored dead. 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led. 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate — 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say : 
" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

" There at the foot of yonder nodding beech. 
That vrreathes its old, fantastic roots so high. 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch. 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove — 

Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn. 
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

" One mom I missed him on the customed hUl, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree ; 

Another came — nor yet beside the rill. 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 

" The next, with dirges due in sad array, 
Slow through the church-way path we saw him 
borne : 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 

Pair science frowned not on his humble birth, 
And melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere — 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; 

He gave to misery (all he had) a tear. 
He gained from heaven ('twas all he wished) a 
friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode — 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose), 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

Thomas Grat. 



786 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



SDeoll) (Eorol. 

Come, lovely and soothing Death, 
Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriv- 
ing 
In the day, in the night, to all, to each, 
Sooner or later, delicate Death. 

Praised be the fathomless universe. 
For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge 

curious ; 
And for love, sweet love ; but praise ! praise ! praise ! 
For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding 

Death. 

Dark mother, always gliding near, with soft feet. 
Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest wel- 
come? 
Then I chant it for thee ; 1 glorify thee above all ; 
1 bring thee a song that when thou must indeed 
come, come unfalteringly. 

Approach, strong deliveress ! 
When it is so — when thou hast taken them, I joy- 
ously sing the dead, 



Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee. 
Laved in the flood of thy bliss, Death. 

From me to thee glad serenades, 

Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee; adorn- 
ments and feastings for thee ; 

And the sights of the open landscape, and the 
high-spread sky, are fitting, 

And life and the fields, and the huge and thought- 
ful night. 

The night, in silence, under many a star ; 

The ocean-shore, and the husky whispering wave, 
whose voice I know ; 

And the soul turning to thee, vast and well- 
veiled Death, 

And the body gratefully nestling close to thee. 

Over the tree-tops I float thee a song ! 
Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad 

fields, and the prairies wide ; 
Over the dense-packed cities all, and the teeming 

wharves and ways, 

I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, 

Death ! 

Walt Whitman. 



PAET X. 
POEMS OF RELIGION 



Oh ! what is man, great Maker of mankind ! 

That Thou to him so great respect dost hear — 
That Thou adorn'st him with so bright a mind, 

Mak'st him a king, and even an angel's peer ? 

Oh ! what a lively life, what heavenly power, 
Wliat spreading virtue, what a sparkling fire ! 

How great, how plentiful, how rich a dower 
Dost Thou within this dying flesh inspire ! 

Thou leav'st Thy print in other works of Thine, 
But Thy whole image Thou in man hast writ ; 

There cannot be a creature more divine. 
Except, like Thee, it should be infinite. 

But it exceeds man's thought, to think how high 
God hath raised man, since God a man became ; 

The angels do admire this mystery. 
And are astonished when they view the same. 

Nor hath he given these blessings for a day, 
Nor made them on the body's life depend ; 

The soul, though made in time, survives for aye, 
And though it hath beginning, sees no end. 

Sib John Davies. 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



?Darkness is ®l)inning. 

Darkness is thinning ; shadows are retreating : 
Morning and light are coming in their beauty. 
Suppliant seek we, with an earnest outcry, 
God the Almighty ! 

So that our Master, having mercy on us. 
May repel languor, may bestow salvation, 
Granting us, Father, of Thy loving kindness 
Glory hereafter ! 

This of His mercy, ever blessed Godhead, 
Father, and Son, and Holy Spirit, give us — 
Whom through the wide world celebrate for ever 
Blessing and glory ! 

St. Gkegobt the Great. (Latin.) 
Translation of John Mason Nealb. 



EnUs aitit Wessons. 

When first thy eies unveil, give thy soul leave 

To do the like ; our bodies but forerun 

The spirit's duty. True hearts spread and heave 

Unto their God, as flow'rs do to the sun. 

Give Him thy first thoughts then ; so shalt thou keep 

Him company all day, and in Him sleep. 

Yet never sleep the sun up. Prayer shou'd 
Dawn with the day. There are set, awful hours 
'Twixt heaven and us. The manna was not good 
After sun-rising ; far-day sullies flowres. 
Rise to prevent the sun ; sleep doth sins glut. 
And heaven's gate opens when this world's is shut. 



Walk with thy fellow-creatures ; note the hush 
And whispers amongst them. There 's not a spring 
Or leafe but hath his morning hymn. Each bush 
And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou not 

sing? 
leave thy cares and follies ! go this way. 
And thou art sure to prosper all the day. 

Serve God before the world ; let Him not go, 
Until thou hast a blessing ; then resigne 
The whole unto Him ; and remember who 
Prevail'd by wrestling ere the sun did shine. 
Poure oyle upon the stones ; weep for thy sin ; 
Then journey on, and have an eie to heav'n. 

Mornings are mysteries : the first world's youth, 

Man's resurrection, and the future's bud 

Shroud in their births ; the crown of life, light, 

truth 
Is stU'd their starre, the stone, and hidden food. 
Three blessings wait upon them, two of which 
Should move : they make us holy, happy, rich. 

When the world 's up, and ev'ry swarm abroad. 
Keep thou thy temper ; mix not with each clay ; 
Dispatch necessities ; life hath a load 
Which must be carri'd on, and safely may. 
Yet keep those cares without thee, let the heart 
Be God's alone, and choose the better part. 

Through all thy actions, counsels, and discourse. 
Let mildness and religion guide thee out ; 
If truth be thine, what needs a brutish force ? 
But what 's not good and just ne'er go about. 



790 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Wrong not thy conscience for a rotten stick ; 
Ttieit gain is dreadful which makes spirits sick. 

To God, thy countrie, and thy friend be true ; 

If priest and people change, keep thou thy ground. 

Who sels religion is a Judas Jew ; 

And, oathes once broke, the soul cannot be sound. 

The perjury 's a devil let loose : what can 

Tie up his hands, that dares mock God and man ? 

Seek not the same steps with the crowd; stick 

thou 
To thy sure trot ; a constant, humble mind 
Is both his own joy, and his Maker's too ; 
Let folly dust it on, or lag behind. 
A sweet self-privacy in a right soul 
Out-runs the earth, and lines the utmost pole. 

To all that seek thee bear an open heart ; 
Make not thy breast a labyrinth or trap ; 
If tryals come, this wil make good thy part, 
For honesty is safe, come what can hap ; 
It is the good man's feast, the prince of flowres 
Which thrives in storms, and smels best after 
showres. 

Seal not thy eyes up from the poor ; but give 
Proportion to their merits, and thy purse : 
Thou may'st in rags a mighty prince relieve, 
Who when thy sins call for 't, can fence a curse. 
Thou shalt not lose one mite. Though waters 

stray, 
The bread we cast returns in f raughts one day. 

Spend not an hour so as to weep another. 

For tears are not thine own ; if thou giv'st words. 

Dash not with them thy friend, nor heav'n ; 

smother 
A viperous thought ; some syllables are swords. 
Unbitted tongues are in their penance double ; 
They shame their owners, and their hearers trouble. 

Injure not modest bloud, while spirits rise 

In judgement against lewdness ; that 's base wit, 

That voyds but filth and stench. Hast thou no 

prize , 

But sickness or infection ? stifle it. 
Who so makes his jest of sins, nmst be at least. 
If not a very devill, worse than beast. 



Yet fly no friend, if he be such indeed ; 

But meet to quench his longings and thy thirst ; 

Allow your joyes religion ; that done, speed, 

And bring the same man back thou wert at first. 

Whoso returns not, cannot pray aright, 

But shuts his door, and leaves God out all night. 

To heighten thy devotions, and keep low 

AU mutinous thoughts, what business e'er thou 

hast, 
Observe God in His works ; here fountains flow. 
Birds sing, beasts feed, fish leap, and th' earth 

stands fast ; 
Above are restles motions, running lights, 
Vast circling azure, giddy clouds, days, nights. 

When seasons change, then lay before thine eys 
His wondrous method ; mark the various scenes 
In heav'n ; hail, thunder, rainbows, snow, and 

ice, 
Calmes, tempests, light, and darknes by His means. 
Thou canst not misse His praise : each tree, herb, 

flowre, 
Are shadows of His wisedome and His pow'r. 

To meales when thou doest come, give Him the 

praise 
Whose arm supply'd thee ; take what may sufiiee. 
And then be thankful ; admire His ways 
Who fils the world's unempty'd granaries ! 
A thankless feeder is a theif, his feast 
A very robbery, and himself no guest. 

High-noon thus past, thy time decays ; provide 
Thee other thoughts ; away with friends and 

mirth ; 
The sun now stoops, and hastes his beams to hide 
Under the dark and melancholy earth. 
All but preludes thy end. Thou art the man 
Whose rise, height, and descent is but a span. 

Yet, set as he doth, and 'tis well. Have all 

Thy beams home with thee ; trim thy lamp, buy 

oyl, 

And then set forth, who is thus drest, the fall 
Furthers his glory, and gives death the foyl. 
Man is a summer's day ; whose youth and fire 
Cool to a glorious evening, and expire. 



THE PHILOSOPHEB'S DEVOTION. 



791 



When night comes, list thy deeds ; make plain the 
way 

'Twist heaven and thee ; block it not with de- 
lays ; 

But perfect aU before thou sleep'st : then say, 

" Ther's one sun more strung on my bead of 
days." 

What's good score up for joy; the bad well 
scann'd 

Wash ofE with tears, and get thy Master's hand. 

Thy accounts thus made, spend in the grave one 

houre 
Before thy time ; be not a stranger there. 
Where thou may'st sleep whole ages ; life's poor 

flow'r 
Lasts not a night sometimes. Bad spirits fear 
This conversation ; but the good man lyes 
Intombed many days before he dyes. 

Being laid, and drest for sleep, close not thy eies 

Up with thy curtains ; give thy soul the wing 

In some good thoughts ; so when the day shall 

rise. 
And thou unrak'st thy fire, those sparks will 

bring 
New flames ; besides where these lodge, vain heats 

mourn 
And die ; that bush where God is shall not burn. 

When thy nap 's over, stir thy fire, imrake 
In that dead age ; one beam i' th' dark outvies 
Two in the day ; then from the damps and ake 
Of night shut up thy leaves ; be chaste ; God 

prys 
Through thickest nights ; though then the sun be 

far, 
Do thou the works of day, and rise a star. 

Briefiy, doe as thou would'st be done unto. 

Love God, and love thy neighbour ; watch, and 

pray. 
These are the words and works of life ; this do. 
And live ; who doth not thus, hath lost heav'n's 

way. 
lose it not ! look up, wilt change those lights 
For chains of darknes and eternal nights ? 

Henry Vaitghan. 



^\\t |)l]ilosopl}cr's iDcDOtion. 

Sing aloud ! His praise rehearse. 
Who hath made the universe. 
He the boundless heavens has spread, 
All the vital orbs has kned ; 
He that on Olympus high 
Tends His flock with watchful eye ; 
And this eye has multiplied 
Midst each flock for to reside. 
Thus, as round about they stray, 
Toucheth each with outstretched ray ; 
Nimbly they hold on their way, 
Shaping out their night and day. 
Never slack they ; none respires. 
Dancing round their central fires. 

In due order as they move. 
Echoes sweet be gently drove 
Through heaven's vast hoUowness, 
Which unto all comers press — 
Music, that the heart of Jove 
Moves to joy and sportful love, 
Fills the listening sailor's ears. 
Riding on the wandering spheres. 
Neither speech nor language is 
Where their voice is not transmiss. 

God is good, is wise, is strong — 

Witness all the creature-throng — 

Is confessed by every tongue. 

All things back from whence they sprung. 

As the thankful rivers pay 

What they borrowed of the sea. 

Now myself I do resign ; 
Take me whole, I aU am Thine. 
Save me, God ! from self-desire, 
Death's pit, dark hell's raging fire, 
Envy, hatred, vengeance, ire ; 
Let not lust my soul bemire. 

Quit from these. Thy praise I'll sing. 
Loudly sweep the trembling string. 
Bear a part, wisdom's sons, 
Freed from vain religions ! 
Lo ! from far I you salute, 
Sweetly warbling on my lute — 



♦ 



793 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



India, Egypt, Araby, 
Asia, Greece, and Tartary, 
Carmel-tracts and Lebanon, 
With the Mountains of the Moon, 
From whence muddy Nile doth run ; 
Or, wherever else you won. 
Breathing in one vital air — 
One we are though distant far. 

Rise at once — let 's sacrifice ! 
Odors sweet perfume the skies. 
See how heavenly lightning fires 
Hearts infiamed with high aspires ; 
All the substance of our souls 
Up in clouds of incense rolls ! 
Leave we nothing to ourselves 
Save a voice — what need we else ? 
Or a hand to wear and tire 
On the thankful lute or lyre. 
Sing aloud ! His praise rehearse 
Who hath made the universe. 

Henry More. 



Q[\\t QElIrer Sjcriptuu. 

There is a book, who runs may read, 
Which heavenly truth imparts. 

And all the lore its scholars need — 
Pure eyes and loving hearts. 

The works of God, above, below, 

Within us, and around. 
Are pages in that book, to show 

How God himself is found. 

The glorious sky, embracing all. 

Is like the Father's love ; 
Wherewith encompassed, great and small 

In peace and order move. 

The dew of heaven is like His grace : 

It steals in silence down ; 
But where it lights, the favored place 

By richest fruits is known. 

Two worlds are ours : 'tis only sin 

Forbids us to descry 
The mystic heaven and earth within. 

Plain as the earth and sky. 



Thou who hast given me eyes to see 

And love this sight so fair. 
Give me a heart to find out Thee 

And read Thee everywhere. 

John Keblb. 



a:i)c 0pirit-£onl>. 

Father, Thy wonders do not singly stand. 

Nor far removed where feet have seldom 
strayed ; 
Around us ever lies the enchanted land, 

In marvels rich to Thine own sons displayed ; 
In finding Thee are all things roimd us found ; 

In losing Thee are all things lost beside ; 
Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound ; 

And to our eyes the vision is denied ; 
We wander in the country far remote. 

Mid tombs and ruined piles in death to dweU ; 
Or on the records of past greatness dote. 

And for a buried soul the living sell ; 
While on our path bewildered falls the night 
That ne'er returns us to the fields of light. 

Jones Vekt. 



£ox Ntro-f car's SDag. 

Eternal source of every joy ! 

Well may Thy praise our lips employ, 

While in Thy temple we appear 

Whose goodness crowns the circling year. 

While as the wheels of nature roll. 
Thy hand supports the steady pole ; 
The sun is taught by Thee to rise. 
And darkness when to veil the skies. 

The flowery spring at Thy command 
Embalms the air, and paints the land ; 
The summer rays with vigor shine 
To raise the corn, and cheer the vine. 

Thy hand in autumn richly pours 
Through all our coasts redundant stores ; 
And winters, softened by Thy care. 
No more a face of horror wear. 



EVENING. 793 


Seasons, and months, and weeks, and days 


Then the love of God infuse, 


Demand successive songs of praise ; 


Breathing humble confidence : 


Still be the cheerful homage paid 


Melt our spirits, mould our will. 


With opening light and evening shade. 


Soften, strengthen, comfort still 1 


Here in Thy house shall incense rise, 


Blessed Trinity, be near 


As circling Sabbaths bless our eyes ; 


Through the hours of darkness drear ; 


Still will we make Thy mercies known. 


When the help of man is far, 


Around Thy board, and round our own. 


Ye more clearly present are : 




Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, 


Oh may our more harmonious tongues 


Watch o'er our defenceless head. 


In worlds unknown pursue the songs ; 


Let your angels' guardian host. 


And in those brighter courts adore 


Keep all evil from our bed, 


Where days and years revolve no more. 


Till the flood of morning's rays 


Philip DoDDRrooE. 


Wake us to a song of praise. 




Anonymous. 


QErcning. 


^n ©be. 


Father, by Thy love and power 




Comes again the evening hour : 


The spacious firmament on high, 


Light has vanished, labors cease, 


With all the blue ethereal sky, 


Weary creatures rest in peace. 


And spangled heavens, a shining frame. 


Thou whose genial dews distil 


Their great original proclaim. 


On the lowliest weed that grows, 


The unwearied sun from day to day 


Father, guard our couch from HI, 


Does his creator's power display, 


Lull Thy children to repose. 


And publishes to every land 


We to Thee oui-selves resign. 


The work of an almighty hand. 


Let our latest thoughts be Thine. 






Soon as the evening shades prevail, 


Saviour, to Thy Father bear 


The moon takes up the wondrous tale, 


This our feeble evening prayer ; 


And nightly, to the listening earth, 


Thou hast seen how oft to-day 


Repeats the story of her birth ; 


We, like sheep, have gone astray : 


Whilst all the stars that round her burn. 


Worldly thoughts, and thoughts of pride. 


And all the planets in their turn, 


Wishes to Thy cross untrue. 


Confirm the tidings as they roll, 


Secret faults, and undescried, 


And spread the truth fi-om pole to pole. 


Meet Thy spirit-piercing view, 




Blessed Saviour, yet through Thee 


What though, in solemn silence, all | 


Pray that these may pardoned be. 


Move round the dark, terrestrial ball ? 




What though nor real voice nor sound 


Holy Spirit, breath of balm. 


Amid their radiant orbs be found ? 


Fall on us in evening's calm : 


In reason's ear they all rejoice, 


Yet awhUe before we sleep 


. And utter forth a glorious voice. 


We with Thee will vigils keep ; 


Forever singing as they shine. 


Lead us on our sins to muse, 


" The hand that made us is divine ! " 


Give us truest penitence. 


Joseph Addison. 



794 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



In a Cllcar Starrg Nigl)!. 

Lord, when those glorious lights I see 

With which Thou hast adorned the skies, 
Observing how they moved be. 

And how their splendor fills mine eyes, 
Methinks it is too large a grace. 

But that Thy love ordained it so — 
That creatures in so high a place 

Should servants be to man below. 

The meanest lamp now shining there 

In size and lustre doth exceed 
The noblest of Thy creatures here. 

And of our friendship hath no need. 
Yet these upon mankind attend, 

For secret aid, or public light ; 
And from the world's extremest end 

Repair unto us every night. 

Oh ! had that stamp been undefaced 

Which first on us Thy hand had set. 
How highly should we have been graced, 

Since we are so much honored yet ! 
Good God, for what but for the sake 

Of Thy beloved and only Son, 
Who did on Him our nature take. 

Were these exceeding favors done ! 

As we by Him have honored been, 

Let us to Him due honors give ; 
Let His uprightness hide our sin. 

And let us worth from Him receive. 
Yea, so let us by grace improve 

What Thou by nature dost bestow, 
That to Thy dwelling-place above 

We may be raised from below. 

George Witheb. 



®n l\)e illorning of (Il}rist's 3X'atit)it2. 

This is the month, and this the happy morn. 
Wherein the Son of heaven's eternal king, 

Of wedded maid and virgin mother born. 

Our great redemption from above di^ bring — 
For so the holy sages once did sing — 

That He our deadly forfeit should release, 

And with His Father work us a perpetual peace. 



That glorious form, that light unsufferable, 
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty 

Wherewith He wont at heaven's high council-table 
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, 
He laid aside ; and here with us to be, 

Forsook the courts of everlasting day, 

And chose with us a darksome house of mortal 
clay. 

Say, heavenly muse, shall not thy sacred vein 
Afford a present to the infant God ? 

Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, 
To welcome Him to this His new abode — 
Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod. 

Hath took no print of the approaching light. 

And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons 
bright ? 

See how from far upon the eastern road 
The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet ! 

Oh ! run, prevent them with thy humble ode. 
And lay it lowly at His blessed feet ; 
Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet. 

And join thy voice unto the angel choir. 

From out His secret altar touched with hallowed 
fire. 

THE HYMN. 

It was the winter wild 

While the heaven-born child 
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies — 

Nature, in awe to Him, 

Had doffed her gaudy trim, 
With her great Master so to sympathize ; 
It was no season then for her 
To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. 

Only with speeches fair 

She woos the gentle air 
To hide her guilty front with innocent snow, 

And on her naked shame. 

Pollute with sinful blame. 
The saintly veil of maiden white to throw — 
Confounded that her maker's eyes 
Should look so near upon her foul deformities. 

But He, her fears to cease. 
Sent down the meek-eyed peace ; 



OiY THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY. 



795 



She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding 
Down through the turning sphere, 
His ready harbinger, 

With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing ; 

And waving wide her myrtle wand. 

She strikes a universal peace through sea and 
land. 

Nor war, or battle's sound. 
Was heard the world around — 

The idle spear and shield were high up hung ; 
The hooked chariot stood 
Unstained with hostile blood ; 

The trumpet spake not to the armed throng ; 

And kings sat still with awful eye, 

As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by. 

But peaceful was the night 

Wherein the prince of light 
His reign of peace upon the earth began ; 

The winds, with wonder whist, 

Smoothly the waters kissed. 
Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, 
Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed 
wave. 

The stars with deep amaze 

Stand fixed in steadfast gaze. 
Bending one way their precious influence ; 

And will not take their flight 

For all the morning light. 
Or Lucifer that often warned them thence ; 
But in theu' glimmering orbs did glow 
Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them 
go- 

And though the shady gloom 

Had given day her room, 
The sun himself withheld his wonted speed. 

And hid his head for shame. 

As his inferior flame 
The new-enlightened world no more should need ; 
He saw a greater sun appear 

Than his bright throne or burning axle-tree could 
bear. 

The shepherds on the lawn. 
Or e'er the point of dawn. 



Sat simply chatting in a rustic row ; 

Full little thought they then 

That the mighty Pan 
Was kindly come to live with them below ; 
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep. 
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy 



When such music sweet 
Their hearts and ears did greet 

As never was by mortal finger strook — 
Divinely-warbled voice 
Answering the stringed noise. 

As all their souls in blissful rapture took ; 

The air, such pleasure loath to lose. 

With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly 
close. 

Nature, that heard such sound 

Beneath the hollow round 
Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling. 

Now was almost won 

To think her part was done. 
And that her reign had here its last fulfilling ; 
She knew such harmony alone 
Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. 

At last surrounds their sight 

A globe of circular light. 
That with long beams the shamefaced night arrayed ; 

The helmed cherubim 

And sworded seraphim 
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed. 
Harping in loud and solemn choir. 
With unexpressive notes, to heaven's new-born 
heir — 

Such music as ('tis said) 

Before was never made, 
But when of old the sons of morning sung, 

While the Creator great 

His constellations set. 
And the well-balanced world on hinges hung. 
And cast the dark foundations deep, 
And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel 
keep. 

King out, ye crystal spheres ! 
Once bless our human ears. 



796 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



If ye have power to touch our senses so ; 

And let your silver chime 

Move in melodious time, 
And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow ; 
And with your ninefold harmony 
Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. 

For if such holy song 

Inwrap our fancy long, 
Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold ; 

And speckled vanity 

Will sicken soon and die. 
And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould ; 
And hell itself will pass away. 
And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering 
day. 

Yea, truth and justice then 

Will down return to men, 
Orbed in a rainbow ; and, like glories wearing, 

Mercy will sit between. 

Throned in celestial sheen. 
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering ; 
And heaven, as at some festival, 
Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall. 

But wisest fate says No — 

This must not yet be so ; 
The babe yet lies in smiling infancy 

That on the bitter cross 

Must redeem our loss, 
So both Himself and us to glorify. 
Yet first to those ye chained in sleep 
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through 
the deep. 

With such a horrid clang 

As on Mount Sinai rang, 
While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake ; 

The aged earth, aghast 

With terror of that blast, 
Shall from the surface to the centre shake — 
When, at the world's last session. 
The dreadful judge in middle air shall spread his 
throne. « 

And then at last our bliss 
Full and perfect is — 



But now begins ; for from this happy day 
The old dragon, under ground 
In straiter limits bound, 

Not half so far easts his usurped sway, 

And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, 

Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. 

The oracles are dumb ; 

No voice or hideous hum 
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving ; 

Apollo from his shrine 

Can no more divine, 
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving ; 
No nightly trance,- or breathed spell, 
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic 
ceU, 

The lonely mountains o'er, 

And the resounding shore, 
A voice of weeping heard and loud lament ; 

Prom haunted spring, and dale 

Edged with poplar pale, 
The parting genius is with sighing sent ;. 
With flower-inwoven tresses torn 
The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets 



In consecrated earth, 

And on the holy hearth, 
The lares and lemures moan with midnight plaint ; 

In urns and altars round 

A drear and dying sound 
Affrights the flamens at their service quaint ; 
And the chill marble seems to sweat, 
While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted 
seat. 

Peor and Baalim 

Forsake their temples dim, 
With that twice-battered god of Palestine ; 

And mooned Ashtaroth, 

Heaven's queen and mother both, 
Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine ; 
The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn — 
In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz 
mourn. 

And sullen Moloch fled, 
Hath left in shadows dread 



EPIPHANY. 



797 



His burning idol all of blackest hue ; 

In vain, with cymbal's ring, 

They call the grisly king, 
In dismal dance about the furnace blue; 
The brutish gods of Nile as fast — 
Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubis — haste. 

Nor is Osiris seen 

In Memphian grove or green. 
Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud, 

Nor can he be at rest 

Within his sacred chest — 
Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud ; 
In vain, with timbrelled anthems dark. 
The sable -stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped 
ark. 

He feels from Juda's land 

The dreaded infant's hand — 
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne ; 

Nor all the gods beside 

Longer dare abide — 
Not Typhon huge, ending in snaky twine ; 
Our babe, to show His God-head true. 
Can in His swaddling-bands control the damned 



So, when the sun in bed, 

Curtained with cloudy red. 
Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, 

The flocking shadows pale 

Troop to the infernal jail — 
Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave ; 
And the yellow-skirted fays 

Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon- 
loved maze. 

But see the virgin blest 

Hath laid her babe to rest — 
Time is our tedious song should here have ending ; 

Heaven's youngest teemed star 

Hath fixed her polished car. 
Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attend- 
ing ; 
And all about the courtly stable 
Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. 

John Milton. 



Brightest and best of the sons of the morning. 
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid ! 

Star of the east, the horizon adorning, 
Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid ! 

Cold on His cradle the dew-drops are shining ; 

Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall ; 
Angels adore Him in slumber reclining — 

Maker, and monarch, and Saviour of all. 

Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, 
Odors of Edom, and offerings divine — 

Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the ocean — 
Myrrh from the forest, and gold from the mine? 

Vainly we offer each ample oblation. 
Vainly with gold would His favor secure ; 

Richer by far is the heart's adoration. 
Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. 

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning. 
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid ! 

Star of the east, the horizon adorning. 
Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid ! 

Reginald Hebeb. 



iHcssiol). 

Ye nymphs of Solyma, begin the song — 
To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. 
The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades. 
The dreams of Pindus and the Aonian maids. 
Delight no more — thou my voice inspire 
Who touched Isaiah's hallowed lips with fire ! 

Rapt into future times the bard begun : 
A virgin shall conceive — a virgin bear a son ! 
From Jesse's root behold a branch arise 
Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies ! 
The ethereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move. 
And on its top descends the mystic dove. 
Ye heavens, from high the dewy nectar pour, 
And in soft silence shed the kindly shower ! 
The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid — 
From storm a shelter, and from heat a shade. 
All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds shaU fail ; 
Returning justice lift aloft her scale, 



798 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, 
And white-robed innocence from heaven descend. 
Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn ! 
Oh spring to light ! auspicious babe, be born ! 
See, nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, 
With all the incense of the breathing spring ! 
See lofty Lebanon his head advance ; 
See nodding forests on the mountains dance ; 
See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise, 
And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies ! 
Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers : 
Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears ! 
A God, a God ! the vocal hills reply — 
The rocks proclaim the approaching deity. 
Lo, earth receives Him from the bending skies ! 
Sink down, ye mountains ; and ye valleys, rise ! 
With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay! 
Be smooth, ye rocks ; ye rapid floods, give way ! 
The Saviour comes ! by ancient bards foretold — 
Hear Him, ye deaf ; and all ye blind, behold ! 
He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, 
And on the sightless eyeball pour the day ; 
'Tis He the obstructed paths of sound shall clear. 
And bid new music charm the unfolding ear ; 
The dumb shall sing ; the lame his crutch forego. 
And leap exulting like the bounding roe. 
No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear — 
From every face He wipes off every tear. 
In adamantine chains shall death be bound. 
And hell's grim tyrant feel the eternal wound. 
As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care. 
Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air. 
Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs. 
By day o'ersees them, and by night protects ; 
The tender lambs He raises in His arms — 
Feeds from His hand, and in His bosom warms : 
Thus shall mankind His guardian care engage — 
The promised father of the future age. 
No more shall nation against nation rise, 
Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes ; 
Nor fields with gleaming steel be covered o'er, 
The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more ; 
But useless lances into scythes shall bend. 
And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end. 
Then palaces shall rise ; the joyful son 
Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun ; 
Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield, 
And the same hand that sowed shall reap the 
field; 



The swain in barren deserts with surprise 

Sees lilies spring and sudden verdure rise ; 

And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds, to hear 

New falls of water murmuring in his ear. 

On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes, 

The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods ; 

Waste sandy valleys, once perplexed with thorn, 

The spiry fir and shapely box adorn ; 

To leafless shrubs the flowery palms succeed, 

And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed ; 

The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant 

mead. 
And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead ; 
The steer and lion at one crib shall meet. 
And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet. 
The smiling infant in his hand shall take 
The crested basilisk and speckled snake — 
Pleased, the green lustre of the scales survey. 
And with their forked tongue shall innocently 



Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, rise ! 
Exalt thy towery head, and lift thine eyes ! 
See a long race thy spacious courts adorn ; 
See future sons and daughters, yet unborn, 
In crowding ranks on every side arise, 
Demanding life, impatient for the skies ! 
See barbarous nations at thy gates attend. 
Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend ; 
See thy bright altars thronged with prostrate 

kings. 
And heaped with products of Sabean springs ! 
For thee Idume's spicy forests blow. 
And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. 
See heaven its sparkling portals wide display, 
And break upon thee in a flood of day ! 
No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, 
Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; 
But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays. 
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze, 
O'erflow thy courts ; the Light Himself shall 

shine 
Revealed, and God's eternal day be thine ! 
The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay. 
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away ; 
But fixed His word, His saving power remains ; 
Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns ! 

Alexander Pope. 






THE REIGN OF CHRIST ON EARTH 799 




To give them songs for sighing. 


®u)clftl) (Bag, or tl)c €pipl) ang. 


Their darkness turn to light. 




Whose souls, condemned and dying, 


That so Thy blessed birth, Christ, 


Were precious in His sight. 


Might through the world be spread about. 




Thy star appeared in the east, 


By such shall He be feared 


Whereby the Gentiles found Thee out ; 


While sun and moon endure — ■ 


And offering Thee myrrh, incense, gold, 


Beloved, obeyed, revered ; 


Thy threefold office did unfold. 


For he shall judge the poor, 




Through changing generations. 


Sweet Jesus, let that star of Thine — 


With justice, mercy, truth. 


Thy grace, which guides to find out Thee — 


While stars maintain their stations 


Within our hearts for ever shine. 


Or moons renew their youth. 


That Thou of us found out mayst be ; 




And Thou shalt be our king therefore. 


He shall come down like showers 


Our priest and prophet evermore. 


Upon the fruitful earth. 




And love, joy, hope, like flowers, 


Tears that from true repentance drop. 


Spring in His path to bii-th ; 


Instead of myrrh, present will we ; 


Before Him, on the moixntains, 


For incense we will offer up 


Shall Peace, the herald, go. 


Our prayers and praises unto Thee ; 


And righteousness, in fountains. 


And bring for gold each pious deed 


From hill to valley flow. 


Which doth from saving grace proceed. 






Arabia's desert-ranger 


And as those wise men never went 


To Him shall bow the knee. 


To visit Herod any more ; 


The Ethiopian stranger 


So, finding Thee, we will repent 


His glory come to see ; 


Our courses followed heretofore ; 


With offerings of devotion 


And that we homeward may retire, 


Ships from the isles shall meet. 


The way by Thee we will inquire. 


To pour the wealth of ocean 


George Wither. 


In tribute at His feet. 




Kings shall fall down before Him, 




And gold and incense bring ; 


Sljc Hcign of (ill)rist aw. (£artl). 


All nations shall adore Him, 




His praise all people sing : 


Hail to the Lord's anointed — 


For He shall have dominion 


Great David's greater Son ! 


O'er river, sea, and shore. 


Hail, in the time appointed, 


Far as the eagle's pinion 


His reign on earth begun ! 


Or dove's light wing can soar. 


He comes to break oppression. 




To set the captive free. 


For Him shall prayer unceasing, 


To take away transgression, 


And daily vows, ascend — 


And rule in equity. 


His kingdom still increasing, 




A kingdom without end ; 


He comes with succor speedy 


The mountain dews shall nourish 


To those who suffer wrong ; 


A seed in weakness sown, 


To help the poor and needy, 


Whose fruit shall spread and flourish. 


And bid the weak be strong ; 


And shake like Lebanon. 

J 



800 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



O'er every foe victorious, 

He on His throne shall rest, 
From age to age more glorious, 

All-blessing and all-blest ; 
The tide of time shall never 

His covenant remove ; 
His name shall stand for ever ; 

That name to us is — love. 

James Montgomert. 



Siesus Q\\a\\ leign. 

Jesus shall reign where'er the sun 
Does his successive Journeys run, — 
His kingdom spread from shore to shore, 
Till moons shall wax and wane no more. 

Prom north to south the princes meet 
To pay their homage at His feet. 
While western empii-es own their Lord, 
And savage tribes attend His word. 

To him shall endless prayer be made, 
And endless praises crown His head ; 
His name like sweet perfume shall rise 
With every morning sacrifice. 

People and realms of every tongue 
Dwell on His love with sweetest song. 
And infant voices shall proclaim 
Their early blessings on His name. 

Isaac "Watts. 



IJassion Simbag. 

The royal banners forward go, 
The cross shines forth in mystic glow. 
Where He in flesh, our flesh who made. 
Our sentence bore, our ransom paid ; 

Where deep for us the spear was dyed, 
Life's torrent rushing from His side. 
To wash us in that precious flood 
Where mingled water flowed and blood. 

Fulfilled is all that David told ' 

In true prophetic song of old : 

Amidst the nations, God, saith he. 

Hath reigned and triumphed from the tree. 



tree of beauty, tree of light ! 
tree with royal purple dight ! 
Elect on whose triumphal breast 
Those holy limbs should find their rest ! 

On whose dear arms, so widely flung. 
The weight of this world's ransom hung — 
The price of human kind to pay. 
And spoil the spoiler of his prey. 

To Thee, eternal three in one. 
Let homage meet by all be done, 
Whom by the cross Thou dost restore, 
Preserve, and govern evermore. Amen. 

Vbnantius Fobtunatus. (Latin.) 
AnonjTnous Translation. 



(Setl)scinane. 

Go to dark Gethseraane, 

Ye that feel the tempter's power ; 
Your Redeemer's conflict see. 

Watch with Him one bitter hour ; 
Turn not fi'om his griefs away — 
Learn of Jesus Christ to pray I 

Follow to the judgment-hall — 
View the Lord of life arraigned ! 

Oh the wormwood and the gall ! 
Oh the pangs his soul sustained ! 

Shun not suffering, shame, or loss — 

Learn of Him to bear the cross ! 

Calvary's mournful mountain climb ; 

There, adoring at His feet, 
Mark that miracle of time — 

God's own sacrifice complete ! 
" It is finished ! " — hear the cry — 
Learn of Jesus Christ to die. 

Early hasten to the tomb 

Where they laid His breathless clay — 
All is solitude and gloom ; 

Who hath taken Him away ? 
Christ is risen ! — he meets our eyes ! 
Saviour, teach us so to rise ! 

Jambs Montgomeby. 



WEEPING MART. 801 




Wave, woods, your blossoms all — 


tofcping iHarg. 


Grim death is dead ! 




Ye weeping funeral trees. 


Mary to her Saviour's tomb 


Lift up your head 1 


Hasted at the early dawn ; 


Christ is risen ! 


Spice she brought, and rich perfume — 




But the Lord slie loved was gone. 


Come, see ! the graves are green ; 


For a whUe she weeping stood, 


It is light ; let 's go 


Struck with sorrow and surprise, 


Where our loved ones rest 


Shedding tears, a plenteous flood — 


In hope below ! 


For her heart supplied her eyes. 


Christ is risen ? 


Jesus, who is always near. 


All is fresh and new. 


Though too often unperceived, 


Full of spring and light ,- 


Comes his drooping child to cheer, 


Wintry heart, why wear'st the hue 


Kindly asking why she grieved. 


Of sleep and night? 


Though at first she knew him not — 


Christ is risen ! 


When He called her by her name, 




Then her griefs were all forgot. 


Leave thy cares beneath. 


For she found He was the same. 


Leave thy worldly love I 




Begin the better life 


Grief and sighing quickly fled 


With God above ! 


When she heard His welcome voice ; 


Christ is risen ! 


Just before she thought Him dead, 


Thomas Blackbukn. 


Now He bids her heart rejoice. 




What a change His word can make, 




Turning darkness into day ! 


(Easter. 


You who weep for Jesus' sake, • ' 


He will wipe your tears away. 


EiSE, heart ! thy Lord is risen. Sing His praise 




Without delays 


He who came to comfort her 


Who takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise 


When she thought her all was lost, 


With Him mayst rise — 


Will for your relief appear. 


That, as His death calcined thee to dust. 


Though you now are tempest-tossed. 


His life may make thee gold, and much more just. 


On His word your burden cast. 




On His love your thoughts employ ; 


Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part 


Weeping for a while may last. 


With all thy art ! 


But the morning brings the joy. 


The cross taught all wood to resound His name 


John Newton. 


Who bore the same ; 




His stretched sinews taught all strings what key 




Is best to celebrate this most high day. 


^n (Easter finmn. 




-/& 


Consort both harp and lute, and twist a song 


Awake, thou wintry earth — 


Pleasant and long ! 


Fling off thy sadness ! 


Or since all music is but three parts vied 


Fair vernal flowers, laugh forth 


And multiplied. 


Your ancient gladness ! 


Oh let thy blessed Spirit bear a part. 


Christ is risen ! 


And make up our defects with His sweet art. 


SS 





802 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



I got me flowers to strew thy way — 
I got me boughs off many a tree ; 

But thou wast up by break of day, 

And brought'st thy sweets along with thee. 

The sun arising in the east, 

Though he give light and th' east perfume. 
If they should offer to contest. 

With Thy arising, they presume. 

Can there be any day but this, 
Though many suns to shine endeavor ? 

We count three hundred, but we miss — 
There is but one, and that one ever. 

George Herbert. 



From my lips in their defilement. 
From my heart'in its beguilement. 
From my tongue which speaks not fair. 
From my soul stained everywhere — 
my Jesus, take my prayer ! 

Spurn me not, for all it says, — 
Not for words, and not for ways, — 
Not for shamelessness endured ! 
Make me brave to speak my mood, 

my Jesus as I would ! 

Or teach me, which I rather seek, 
What to do and what to speak. 

1 have sinned more than she 

Who, learning where to meet with Thee, 
And bringing myrrh the highest priced. 
Anointed bravely, from her knee. 
Thy blessed feet accordingly — 
My God, my Lord, my Christ ! 
As thou saidest not " Depart," 
To that suppliant from her heart, 
Scorn me not, Word, that art 
The gentlest one of all words said ! 
But give Thy feet to me instead. 
That tenderly I may them kiss. 
And clasp them close, and never miss. 
With over-dropping tears, as free 
And precious as that myrrh could be, 
T' anoint them bravely from my knee ! 

Wash me with Thy tears ! draw nigh me. 
That their salt may purify me ! 



Thou remit my sins who knowest 
All the sinning, to the lowest — ■ 
Knowest all my wounds, and seest 
All the stripes Thyself decreest ; 
Yea, but knowest all my faith — 
Seest all my force to death, — 
Hearest all my wailings low 
That mine evil should be so ! 
Nothing hidden but appears 
In Thy knowledge, Divine, 
Creator, Saviour mine ! — 
Not a drop of falling tears, 
Not a breath of inward moan, 
Not a heart-beat — which is gone ! 

St. Joannes Damascenus. (Greek.) 
Translation of Mrs. Browning. 



iHS (Soir, 3 tone a;i}ee. 

My God, I love Thee ! not because 
I hope for heaven thereby ; 

Nor because those who love Thee not 
Must burn eternally. 

Thou, my Jesus, Thou didst me 

Upon the cross embrace ! 
For me didst bear the nails and spear. 

And manifold disgrace. 

And griefs and torments numberless, 

And sweat of agony. 
Yea, death itself — and all for one 

That was Thine enemy. 

Then why, blessed Jesus Christ, 
Should I not love Thee well? 

Not for the hope of winning heaven. 
Nor of escaping hell ! 

Not with the hope of gaining aught, 

Not seeking a reward ; 
But as Thyself hast loved me, 

everlasting Lord ! 

E'en so I love Thee, and wiU love. 
And in Thy praise wiU sing — 

Solely because Thou art my God, 
And my eternal king. 

St. Francis Xavier. (Latin.) 
Translation of Edward Caswell. 



WRESTLINa JACOB. 803 




But who, I ask Thee, who art Thou ? 


Jf Jottrncs tl)ron9l) a ?Dcscrt iJDrear 


Tell me Thy name, and tell me now. 


onb toilb. 


In vain Thou strugglest to get free ; 


I JOURNEY through a desert drear and wild, 


I never will unloose my hold ; 


Yet is my heart by such sweet thoughts beguiled 


Art Thou the man that died for me ? 


Ol Him on whom I lean, my strength, my stay, 


The secret of Thy love imf old ; 


I can forget the sorrows of the way. 


Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, 




Till I Thy name. Thy nature know. 


Thoughts of His love — the root of every grace, 




Which finds in this poor heart a dwelling-place ; 


Wilt Thou not yet to me reveal 


The sunshine of my soul, than day more bright. 


Thy new, unutterable name ? 


And my calm pillow of repose by night. 


Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell ; 




To know it now resolved I am ; 


Thoughts of His sojourn in this vale of tears — 


Wrestling, I will not let Thee go. 


The tale of love unfolded in those years 


Till I Thy name. Thy nature know. 


Of sinless suffering, and patient grace. 




1 love again and yet again to trace. 


What though my shrinking flesh complain, 




And murmur to contend so long ; 


Thoughts of His glory — on the cross I gaze, 


I rise superior to my pain ; 


And there behold its sad, yet healing rays ; 


When I am weak, then am I strong ! 


Beacon of hope, which, lifted up on high. 


And when my all of strength shall fail. 


Illumes with heavenly light the tear-dimmed eye. 


I shall with the God-man prevail. 


Thoughts of His coming — for that joyful day 


SECOND PART. 


In patient hope I watch, and wait, and pray ; 




The dawn draws nigh, the midnight shadows flee. 


Yield to me now, for I am weak, 


Oh ! what a sunrise will that advent be ! 


But confident in self-despair ; 




Speak to my heart, in blessings speak ; 


Thus whUe I journey on, my Lord to meet. 


Be conquered by my instant prayer; 


My thoughts and meditations are so sweet. 


Speak, or Thou never hence shalt move. 


Of Him on whom I lean, my strength, my stay. 


And teU me if Thy name be Love. 


I can forget the sorrows of the way. 




Anontmotjs. 


'Tis love ! 'tis love ! Thou diedst for me ; 




I hear Thy whisper in my heart ; 




The morning breaks, the shadows flee ; 


torcstUng Jfocob. 


Pure, universal love Thou art ; 


To me, to all. Thy bowels move. 


FIRST PART. 


Thy nature and Thy name is Love. 


CojrE, Thou traveller unknown. 


My prayer hath power with God ; the grace 


Whom still I hold, but cannot see ; 


Unspeakable I now receive ; 


My company before is gone. 


Through faith I see Thee face to face ; 


And I am left alone with Thee ; 


I see Thee face to face and live ! 


With Thee all night I mean to stay, 


In vain I have not wept and strove ; 


And wrestle tiU the break of day. 


Thy nature and Thy name is Love. 


I need not tell Thee who I am ; 


I know Thee, Saviour, who Thou art, 


My sin and misery declare ; 


Jesus, the feeble sinner's friend ; 


Thyself hast called me by my name ; 


Nor wilt Thou with the night depart. 


Look on Thy hands, and read it there ; 


But stay and love me to the end ; 



804 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Thy mercies never shall remove ; 
Thy nature and Thy name is Love. 

The sun of righteousness on me 

Hath rose, with healing in his wings ; 

Withered my nature's strength ; from Thee 
My soul its life and succor brings ; 

My help is all laid up above ; 

Thy nature and Thy name is Love. 

Contented now upon my thigh 
I halt, till life's short Journey end ; 

All helplessness, all weakness, I 

On Thee alone for strength depend ; 

Nor have I power from Thee to move ; 

Thy nature and Thy name is Love. 

Lame as I am, I take the prey; 

Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o'ercome ; 
I leap for joy, pursue my way, 

And, as a bounding hart, fly home ; 
Through aU eternity to prove 
Thy nature and Thy name is Love. 

Charues Wesley. 



@i;i)e Stranger anir Ijis iTricnlJ. 

A POOR wayfaring man of grief 

Hath often crossed me on my way, 
Who sued so humbly for relief 

That I could never answer " Nay." 
I had not power to ask His name, 
Whither He went, or whence He came ; 
Yet there was something in His eye 
That won my love, — I knew not why. 

Once, when my scanty meal was spread. 
He entered. Not a word He spake. 

Just perishing for want of bread, 
I gave Him all ; He blessed it, brake, 

And ate ; but gave me part again. 

Mine was an angel's portion then ; 

For while I fed with eager haste. 

That crust was manna to my taste. 

I spied Him where a fountain bufst 

Clear from the rock ; His strength was gone ; 

The heedless water mocked His thirst ; 
He heard it, saw it hurrying on. 



I ran to raise the sufferer up ; 
Thrice from the stream He drained my cup. 
Dipped, and returned it running o'er; — 
I drank, and never thirsted more. 

'Twas night ; the floods were out, — it blew 

A winter hurricane aloof ; 
I heard His voice abroad, and flew 

To bid Him welcome to my roof ; 
I warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest — 
Laid Him on my own couch to rest ; 
Then made the earth my bed, and seemed 
In Eden's garden while I dreamed. 

Stripped, wounded, beaten nigh to death, 

I found Him by the highway side ; 
I roused His pulse, brought back His breath, 

Revived His spirit and supplied 
Wine, oil, refreshment ; He was healed. 
I had, myself, a wound concealed — 
But from that hour forgot the smart, 
And peace bound up my broken heart. 

In prison I saw Him next, condemned 
To meet a traitor's doom at morn ; 

The tide of lying tongues I stemmed, 
And honored Him midst shame and scorn. 

My friendship's utmost zeal to try. 

He asked if I for him would die ; 

The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill, 

But the free spirit cried, " I will." 

Then in a moment, to my view. 
The stranger darted from disguise ; 

The tokens in His hands I knew — 
My Saviour stood before mine eyes. 

He spake ; and my poor name he named — 

" Of me thou hast not been ashamed ; 

These deeds shall thy memorial be ; 

Fear not ! thou didst them unto me." 

Jambs Montgomeet. 



a;i)c Call. 

Come, my way, my truth, my life- 
Such a way as gives us breath ; 

Such a truth as ends all strife ; 
Such a life as killeth death. 



THE FEAST. 



805 



Come my light, my feast, my strength — 

Such a light as shows a feast ; 
Such a feast as mends in length ; 

Such a strength as makes His guest. 

Come my joy, my love, my heart ! 

Such a joy as none can move ; 
Such a love as none can part ; 

Such a heart as joys in love. 

Geobge Herbert. 



How sweetly doth My Master sound ! — My Master ! 

As ambergris leaves a rich scent 
Unto the taster, 

So do these words a sweet content 
An oriental fragrancy — My Master ! 

With these all day I do perfume my mind, 
My mind even thrust into them both — 

That I might find 
What cordials make this curious broth. 

This broth of smells, that feeds and fats my mind. 

My Master shall I speak ? Oh that to Thee 

My servant were a little so 
As flesh may be : 

That these two words might creep and grow 
To soine degree of spiciness to Thee ! 

Then should the pomander, which was before 
A speaking sweet, mend by reflection. 

And tell me more ; 
For pardon of my imperfection 

Would warm and work it sweeter than before. 

For when My Master, which alone is sweet. 
And e'en in my unworthiness pleasing, 

Shall call and meet 
My servant, as Thee not displeasing, 

That call is but the breathing of the sweet. 

This breathing.would with gains, by sweet'ning me, 
(As sweet things traffick when they meet) 

Eeturn to Thee ; 
And so this new commerce and sweet 
Should all my life employ, and busy me. 

George Herbert. 



Oh come away ! 

Make no delay — 
Come while my heart is clean and steady ! 

While faith and grace 

Adorn the place, 
Making dust and ashes ready ! 

No bliss here lent 

Is permanent — 
Such triumphs poor flesh cannot merit ; 

Short sips and sights 

Endear delights ; 
Who seeks for more he would inherit. 

Come then, true bread, 

Quick'ning the dead. 
Whose eater shall not, cannot die ! 

Come, antedate 

On me that state 
Which brings poor dust the victory ! — 

Aye, victory ! 

Which from thine eye. 
Breaks as the day doth from the east, 

When the spilt dew, 

Like tears, doth shew 
The sad world wept to be releast. 

Spring up, wine ! 

And springing shine 
With some glad message from His heart, 

Who did, when slain. 

These means ordain 
For me to have in Him a part ! — 

Such a sure part 

In His blest heart, 
The weU where living waters spring. 

That, with it fed. 

Poor dust, though dead, 
Shall rise again, and live, and sing. 

drink and bread. 

Which strikes death dead. 
The food of man's immortal being ! 

Under veils here 

Thou art my cheer. 
Present and sure without my seeing. 



806 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



How dost Thou fly, 

And search and pry- 
Through all my parts, and, like a quick 

And knowing lamp, 

Hunt out each damp 
Whose shadow makes me sad or sick. 

Oh what high Joys ! 

The turtle's voice 
And songs I hear ! quick'ning showers 

Of my Lord's blood. 

You make rocks bud. 
And crown dry hills with wells and flowers ! 

For this true ease. 

This healing peace, 
For this brief taste of living glory. 

My soul and all. 

Kneel down and fall. 
And sing His sad victorious story. 

thorny crown, 

More soft than down ! 
painful cross, my bed of rest ! 

spear, the key 

Opening the way ! 
Thy worst state my only best. 

Oh, all Thy griefs 

Are my reliefs. 
As all my sins Thy sorrows were ; 

And what can I 

To this reply?' 
What, God ! but a silent tear I 

Some toil and sow 

That wealth may flow, 
And dress this earth for next year's meat ; 

But let me heed 

Why Thou didst bleed, 
And what in the next world to eat. 

Henby Vatjghan. 



Sonnets. 

How orient is Thy beauty ! How divine ! 
How dark's the glory of the earth to Thine! 
Thy veiled eyes outshine heaven's greater light, 
Unconquered by the shady cloud of night ; 



Thy curious tresses dangle, all unbound. 
With unaffected order to the ground : 
How orient is Thy beauty ! How divine ! 
How dark 's the glory of the earth to Thine ! 

Nor myrrh, nor cassia, nor the choice perfumes 

Of unctious nard, or aromatic fumes 

Of hot Arabia do enrich the air 

With more delicious sweetness than the fair 

Reports that crown the merits of Thy name 

With heavenly laurels of eternal fame, 

Which makes the virgins fix their eyes upon Thee, 

And all that view Thee are enamored on Thee. 

Who ever smelt the breath of morning flowers 
New sweetened with the dash of twilight showers. 
Of pounded amber, or the flowing thyme. 
Or purple violets in their proudest prime. 
Or swelling clusters from the cypress-tree ? 
So sweet 's my love ; aye, far more sweet is He — 
So fair, so sweet, that heaven's bright eye is dim. 
And flowers have no scent, compared with Him. 

Francis Quaeles. 



®[)e Morazx. 

How fresh, Lord, how sweet and clean 
Are thy returns ! e'en as the flowers in spring — 

To which, besides their own demean, 
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. 
Grief melts away 
Like snow in May, 
As if there were no such cold thing. 

Who would have thought my shrivelled heart 
Could have recovered greenness ? It was gone 

Quite under ground ; as flowers depai't 
To see their mother-root when they have blown. 
Where they together. 
All the hard weather. 
Dead to the world, keep house unknown. 

These are Thy wonders. Lord of power:. 
Killing and quick'ning, bringing down to hell 

And up to heaven in an hour. 
Making a chiming of a passing-bell. 
We say amiss. 
This or that is — 
Thy word is all, if we could spell. 



A PRAYER LIVING AND DYING. 807 


Oh, that I once past changing were — 


Nothing in my hand I bring — 


Fast in Thy paradise, where no flower can wither ! 


Simply to Thy cross I cling ; 


Many a spring I shoot up fair. 


Naked come to Thee for dress — 


OfEering at heaven, growing and groaning thither ; 


Helpless look to Thee for grace ; 


Nor doth my flower 


Foul, I to the foimtain fly — 


Want a spring-shower, . 


Wash me, Saviour, or I die. 


My sins and I joining together. 






While I draw this fleeting breath. 


But, while I grow in a straight line, 


When my eye-strings break in death. 


Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own. 


When I soar to worlds unknown. 


Thy anger comes, and I decline ; 


See Thee on Thy judgment throne, 


What frost to that ? what pole is not the zone 


Eock of ages, cleft for me. 


Where all things burn. 


Let me hide myself in Thee ! 


When Thou dost turn 


Augustus Montague Topladt. 


And the least frown of Thine is shown ? 




And now in age I bud again — 




After so many deaths I live and write ; 


^\)t (S?tatnple of (E.\)XX5l. 


I once more smell the dew and rain, 




And relish versing ; my only light, 


My dear Eedeemer, and my God, 


It cannot be 


I read my duty in Thy word ; 


That I am he 


But in Thy life the law appears 


On whom Thy tempests fell all night ! 


Drawn out in living characters. 


These are Thy wonders. Lord of love — 


Such was Thy truth, and such Thy zeal. 


To make us see we are but flowers that glide ; 


Such deference to Thy Father's will, 


Which when we once can find and prove. 


Such love, and meekness so divine. 


Thou hast a garden for us where to bide.. 


I would transcribe, and make them mine. 


Who would be more. 




Swelling through store, 


Cold mountains, and the midnight air. 


Forfeit their paradise by their pride. 


Witnessed the fervor of Thy prayer ; 


George Herbebt. 


The desert Thy temptations knew — 




Thy conflict, and Thy victory too. 




Be Thoii my pattern ; make me bear 


^ IJrager £ioing cinb SD^ing. 


More of Thy gracious image here ; 




Then God, the Judge, shall own my name 


EocK of ages, cleft for me. 


Amongst the followers of the Lamb. 


Let me hide myself in Thee ! 


Isaac Watts. 


Let the water and the blood, 




From Thy riven side which flowed. 




Be of sin the double cure — 




Cleanse me from its guilt and power. 


(Come unto itte. 


Not the labors of my hands 


" Come nnto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and 


Can fulfil Thy law's demands ; 


I will give you rest." 


Could my zeal no respite know, 


CoME, said Jesus' sacred voice — 


Could my tears for ever flow, 


Come and make my paths your choice ! 


All for sin could not atone — 


I will guide you to your home — 


Thou must save, and Thou alone. 


Weary pilgrim, hither come ! 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Thou who, houseless, sole, forlorn. 
Long hast borne the proud world's scorn, 
Long hast roamed the barren waste. 
Weary pilgrim, hither haste ! 

Ye who, tossed on beds of pain, 
Seek for ease, but seek in vain — 
Ye whose swollen and sleepless eyes 
Watch to see the morning rise — 

Ye by fiercer anguish torn. 

In strong remorse for guilt who mourn, 

Here repose your heavy care — 

A wounded spirit who can bear ! 

Sinner, come ! for here is found 
Balm that flows for every wound — 
Peace, that ever shall endure — 
Rest eternal, sacred, sure. 

Anna Il«;titia Barbauld. 



Watchman, tell us of the night — 

What its signs of promise are ! 
Traveller, o'er yon mountain's height 

See that glory-beaming star ! 
Watchman, does its beauteous ray 

Aught of hope or joy foretell ? 
Traveller, yes ; it brings the day — 

Promised day of Israel. 

Watchman, tell us of the night — 

Higher yet that star ascends ! 
Traveller, blessedness and light. 

Peace and truth, its course portends. 
Watchman, will its beams alone 

Gild the spot that gave them birth ? 
Traveller, ages are its own — 

See, it bursts o'er all the earth ! 

Watchman, tell us of the night. 

For the morning seems to dawn. 
Traveller, darkness takes its flight — 

Doubt and terror are withdrawn. 
Watchman, let thy wandering cease ; 

Hie thee to thy quiet home. * 
Traveller, lo ! the Prince of Peace — 

Lo ! the Son of God is come. 

John Bowring. 



Horkeit in tijc €roble of tl)e JDeeiJ. 

Rocked in the cradle of the deep, 
I lay me down in peace to sleep ; 
Secure I rest upon the wave. 
For Thou, Lord ! hast power to save. 
I know thou wilt not slight my call. 
For Thou dost mark the sparrow's fall ; 
And calm and peaceful shall I sleep, 
Rocked in the cradle of the deep. 

When in the dead of night I lie 
And gaze upon the trackless sky. 
The star-bespangled heavenly scroll. 
The boundless waters as they roll, — 
I feel Thy wondrous power to save 
From perils of the stormy wave : 
Rocked in the cradle of the deep, 
I calmly rest and soundly sleep. 

And such the trust that still were mine. 
Though stormy winds swept o'er the brine, 
Or though the tempest's flery breath 
Roused me from sleep to wreck and death ! 
In ocean-cave, still safe with Thee 
The germ of immortality ! 
And calm and peaceful shall I sleep. 
Rocked in the cradle of the deep. 

Emma Willaed. 



lesns, Coocr of itig Soul. 

Jesus, lover of my soul, 

Let me to Thy bosom fly 
While the nearer waters roll. 

While the tempest still is high. 
Hide me, my Saviour, hide. 

Till the storm of life is past : 
Safe into Thy haven guide — 

Oh, receive my soul at last. 

Other refuge have I none — 

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee ; 
Leave, ah ! leave me not alone — 

Still support and comfort me. 
All my trust on Thee is stayed. 

All my help from Thee I bring ; 
Cover my defenceless head 

With the shadow of Thy wing. 



FRIEND OF ALL. 



809 



Wilt Thou not regai-d my call? 

Wilt Thou not regard my prayer ? 
Lo ! I sink, I faint, I fall — 

Lo ! on Thee I cast my care ; 
Reach me out Thy gracious hand, 

WhUe I of Thy strength receive ! 
Hoping against hope I stand — 

Dying, and behold I live. 

Thou, Christ, art all I want — 

More than all in Thee I find ; 
Raise the fallen, cheer the faint, 

Heal the sick, and lead the blind. 
Just and holy is Thy name — 

I am all unrighteousness ; 
False, and full of sin 1 am — 

Thou art full of truth and grace. 

Plenteous grace with Thee is found,— 

Grace to cover all my sin ; 
Let the healing streams abound — 

Make and keep me pure within. 
Thou of life the fountain art — 

Freely let me take of Thee ; 
Spring Thou up within my heart — 

Rise to all eternity. 



Charles Weslet. 



Jrienir of ^U. 

Friejto of all who seek Thy favor. 

Us defend 

To the end — 
Be our utmost Saviour ! 

Us, who join on earth to adore Thee, 

Guard and love. 

Till above 
Both appear before Thee ! 

Fix on Thee our whole afEection — 

Love divine. 

Keep us Thine, 
Safe in Thy protection ! 

Christ, of all our conversation 

Be the scope — 

Lift us up 
To Thy full salvation ! 



Bring us every moment nearer ; 

Fairer rise 

In our eyes — 
Dearer still, and dearer ! 

Infinitely dear and precious, 

With Thy love 

From above 
Evermore refresh us ! 

Strengthened by the cordial blessing, 

Let us haste 

To the feast. 
Feast of joys unceasing ! 

Perfect let us walk before Thee — 

Walk in white 

To the sight 
Of Thy heavenly glory ! 

Both with calm impatience press on 

To the prize — 

Scale the skies. 
Take entire possession — 

Drink of life's exhaustless river — 

Take of Thee 

Life's fair tree — 

Eat, and live for ever ! 

Charles Wesley. 



Citang. 

Saviour, when in dust to Thee 
Low we bow the adoring knee ; 
When, repentant, to the skies 
Scarce we lift our weeping eyes — 
Oh, by all thy pains and woe 
Suffered once for man below. 
Bending from Thy throne on high, 
Hear our solemn litany ! 

By Thy helpless infant years ; 
By Thy life of want and tears ; 
By Thy days of sore distress. 
In the savage wilderness ; 
By the dread, mysterious hour 
Of the insulting tempter's power — 
Turn, turn a favoring eye — 
Hear our solemn litany ! 



810 POEMS OF RELIGION. 


By the sacred griefs that wept 


He shall His pitying aid bestow 


O'er the grave where Lazarus slept ; 


Who felt on earth severer woe, 


By the boding tears that flowed 


At once betrayed, denied, or fled, 


Over Salem's loved abode; 


By those who shared His daily bread. 


By the anguished sigh that told 




Treachery lurked within the fold — 


If vexing thoughts within me rise, 


Prom Thy seat above the sky 


And sore dismayed my spirit dies, 


Hear our solemn litany ! 


Still He who once vouchsafed to bear 




The sickening anguish of despair 


By Thine hour of dire despair ; 


Shall sweetly soothe, shall gently dry. 


By Thine agony of prayer ; 


The throbbing heart, the streaming eye. 


By the cross, the wail, the thorn, 




Piercing spear, and torturing scorn ; 


When sorrowing o'er some stone I bend, 


By the gloom that veiled the skies 


Which covers what was once a friend, 


O'er the dreadful sacrifice — 


And from his voice, his hand, his smile, 


Listen to our humble cry : 


Divides me for a little while ; 


Hear our solemn litany ! 


Thou, Saviour, mark'st the tears I shed. 




For Thou didst weep o'er Lazarus dead. 


By Thy deep expiring groan ; 




By the sad sepulchral stone ; 


And oh, when I have safely past 


By the vault whose dark abode 


Through 6very conflict but the last, 


Held in vain the rising God ! 


Still, still unchanging, watch beside 


Oh ! from earth to heaven restored, 


My painful bed, for Thou hast died ; 


Mighty, reascended Lord — 


Then point to realms of cloudless day. 


Listen, listen to the cry 


And wipe the latest tear away. 


Of our solemn litany ! 


Sib Eobebt Gbant. 


Sib Robert Gbant. 






S;i)e iUealt (Eljrist. 


fsmn. 






Take the dead Christ to my chamber — 


When gathering clouds around I view, 


The Christ I brought from Rome ; 


And days are dark, and friends are few, 


Over all the tossing ocean. 


On Him I lean, who, not in vain. 


He has reached His western home : 


Experienced every human pain ; 


Bear Him as in procession, 


He sees my wants, allays my fears. 


And lay Him solemnly 


And counts and treasures up my tears. 


Where, through weary night and morning. 




He shall bear me company. 


If aught should tempt my soul to stray 




From heavenly wisdom's narrow way. 


The name I bear is other 


To fly the good I would pursue. 


Than that I bore by birth ; 


Or do the sin I would not do, — 


And I've given life to children 


Still He who felt temptation's power 


Who'll grow and dwell on earth ; 


Shall guard me in that dangerous hour. 


But the time comes swiftly towards me — 




Nor do I bid it stay — 


If wounded love my bosom swell. 


When the dead Christ will be more to me 


Deceived by those I prized too well, 


Than all I hold to-day. 



THE DEAD CHRIST. 



811 



Lay the dead Christ beside me — 

Oh, press Him on my heart ; 
I would hold Him long and painfully, 

Till the weary tears should start — 
Till the divine contagion 

Heal me of self and sin, 
And the cold weight press wholly down 

The pulse that chokee within. 

Reproof and frost, they fret me : 

Towards the free, the sunny lands, 
From the chaos of existence, 

I stretch these feeble hands — 
And, penitential, kneeling. 

Pray God would not be wroth. 
Who gave not the strength of feeling 

And strength of labor both. 

Thou 'rt but a wooden carving. 

Defaced of worms, and old ; 
Yet more to me Thou eouldst not be 

"Wert Thou all wrapt in gold. 
Like the gem-bedizened baby 

Which, at the Twelfth-day noon. 
They show from the Ara CcEli's steps 

To a merry dancing tune. 

I ask of Thee no wonders — 

No changing white or red ; 
I dream not Thou art living, 

I love and prize Thee dead. 
That salutary deadness 

I seek through want and pain. 
From which God's own high power can bid 

Our virtue rise again. 

Julia Ward Howi;. 



iHg Spirit Congctl) for ®l)€e. 

My spirit longeth for Thee 
Within my troubled breast, 

Although I be unworthy 
Of so divine a Guest. 

Of so divine a Guest 
Unworthy though I be. 

Yet has my heart no rest 
Unless it come from Thee. 



Unless it come from Thee, 

In vain I look around ; 
In all that I can see 

No rest is to be found. 

No rest is to be found 

But in Thy blessed love : 
Oh, let my wish be crowned, 

And send it from above ! 

THE ANSWER. 

Cheer up, desponding soul ! 

Thy longing pleased I see ; 
'Tis part of that great whole 

Wherewith I longed for thee. 

Wherewith I longed for thee. 
And left my Father's throne, 

Prom death to set thee free. 
To claim thee for my own. 

To claim thee for my own 

I suffered on the cross. 
Oh, were my love but known. 

No soul could fear its loss. 

No soul could fear its loss. 
But, filled with love divine, 

Would die on its own cross. 
And rise forever mine. 

John Btkom. 



Sonnet. 

In the desert of the Holy Land I strayed. 
Where Christ once lived, but seems to live no more ; 
In Lebanon my lonely home I made ; 
I heard the wind among the cedars roar. 
And saw far off the Dead Sea's solemn shore — 
But 'tis a dreary wilderness, I said. 
Since the prophetic spirit hence has sped. 
Then from the convent in the vale I heard. 
Slow chanted forth, the everlasting Word — 
Saying, " I am He that liveth, and was dead ; 
And lo I am alive for evermore." 
Then forth upon my pilgrimage I fare. 
Resolved to find and praise Him everywhere. 

Anonymous. 



812 FOJEMS OF RELIGION. 




How keen the stars, Ms only thought ; 


<^ f gmn. 


The air how calm and cold and thin. 


■/** 


In the solemn midnight, 


Drop, drop, slow tears, 


Centuries ago ! 


And bathe those beauteous feet 




Which brought from heaven 


Oh, strange indifference ! low and high 


The news and Prince of Peace. 


Drowsed over common joys and cares ; 


Cease not, wet eyes 


The earth was still — but knew not why ; 


His mercies to entreat, 


The world was listening, unawares. 


To cry for vengeance 


How calm a moment may precede 


Sin doth never cease ; 


One that shall thrill the world for ever ! 


In your deep floods 


To that still moment none would heed, 


Drown all my faults and fears ; 


Man's doom was linked no more to sever — 


Nor let His eye 


In the solemn midnight, 


See sin, but througli my tears. 


Centuries ago I 


Phineas Fletcher. 


It is the calm and solemn night ! 




A thousand bells ring out, and throw 




Their joyous peals abroad, and smite 


% (fll)nstmo0 ^atnn. 


The darkness — charmed and holy now ! 
The night that erst no name had worn. 


It was the calm and silent night ! 


To it a happy name is given ; 


Seven hundred years and fifty-three 


For in that stable lay, new-born. 


Had Rome been growing up to might. 


The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven, 


And now was queen of land and sea. 


In the solemn midnight, 


No sound was heard of clashing wars ; 


Centuries ago ! 


Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain : 


Alpeed Domett. 


Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars 




Held undisturbed their ancient reign, 




In the solemn midnight. 


Cirijristmas. 


Centuries ago. 




O 


Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 


'Twas in the calm and silent night ! 


The flying cloud, the frosty light : 


The senator of haughty Rome, 


The year is dying in the night — 


Impatient, urged his chariot's flight. 


Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 


From lordly revel rolling home ; 


Ring out the old, ring in the new — 


Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell 


Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 
The year is going, let him go ; 
Ring out the false, ring in the true. 


His breast with thoughts of boundless sway ; 
What recked the Roman what befell 


A paltry province far away. 




In the solemn midnight. 


Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 


Centuries ago ? 


For those that here we see no more ; 




Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 


Within that province far away 


Ring in redress to all mankind. 


Went plodding home a weary boor ; 




A streak of light before him lay, * 


Ring out a slowly dying cause, 


Fallen through a half-shut stable-door 


And ancient forms of party strife ; 


Across his path. He passed — for naught 


Ring in the nobler modes of life. 


Told what was going on within ; 


With sweeter manners, purer laws. 



ST. PETER'S DAT. 813 


Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faithless coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 

But ring the fuUer minstrel in. 


That gracious chiding look. Thy call 
To win him to himself and Thee, 

Sweetening the sorrow of his fall 
Which else were rued too bitterly ; 


Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite ; 
Ring in the love of truth and right. 

Ring in the common love of good. 


Even through the veil of sleep it shines. 
The memory of that kindly glance ; 

The angel, watching by, divines. 
And spares awhile his blissful trance. 


Ring out old shapes of foul disease. 
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 
Ring out the thousand wars of old, 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 


Or haply to his native lake 

His vision wafts him back, to talk 
With Jesus, ere his flight he take, 

As in that solemn evening walk. 


Ring in the valiant man and free. 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Ring out the darkness of the land — 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 


When to the bosom of his friend. 

The Shepherd, He whose name is Good, 

Did His dear lambs and sheep commend, 
Both bought and nourished with His blood ; 


Alfred Tennyson. 


Then laid on him th' inverted tree, 

Which, firm embraced with heart and arm, 

Might cast o'er hope and memory. 
O'er life and death, its awful charm. 


Thou thrice denied, yet thrice beloved. 
Watch by thine own forgiven friend ! 

In sharpest perils faithful proved, • 
Let his soul love Thee to the end. 


With brightening heart he bears it on, 
His passport through th' eternal gates. 

To his sweet home — so nearly won, 
He seems, as by the door he waits, 


The prayer is heard — else why so deep 
His slumber on the eve of death ? 

And wherefore smiles he in his sleep. 
As one who drew celestial breath ? 


The unexpressive notes to hear 
Of angel song and angel motion. 

Rising and falling on the ear 
Like waves in joy's unbounded ocean. 


He loves and is beloved again — 
Can his soul choose but be at rest ? 

Sorrow hath fled away, and pain 
Dares not invade the guarded nest. 


His dream is changed — the tyrant's voice 
Calls to that last of glorious deeds — 

But as he rises to rejoice. 
Not Herod, but an angel leads. 


He dearly loves, and not alone ; 

For his winged thoughts are soaring high, 
Wliere never yet frail heart was known 

To breathe in vain affection's sigh. 


He dreams he sees a lamp flash bright, 
Glancing around his prison-room ; 

But 'tis a gleam of heavenly light 
That fills up all the ample gloom. 


He loves and weeps ; but more than tears 
Have sealed Thy welcome and his love — 

One look lives in him, and endears 
Crosses and wrongs where'er he rove — 


The flame that in a few short years 
Deep through the chambers of the dead 

Shall pierce, and dry the fount of tears, 
Is waving o'er his dungeon-bed. 

• 



814 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


Touched, he upstarts — his chains unbind — 


He cast (of which we rather boast) 


Through darksome vault, up massy stair, 


The gospel's pearl upon our coast ; 


His dizzy, doubting footsteps wind 


And in these rocks for us did frame 


To freedom and cool, moonlight air. 


A temple, where to sound His name. 




Oh ! let our voice His praise exalt 


Then all himself, all joy and calm, 


Till it arrive at heaven's vault ; 


Though for awhile his hand forego, 


Which, then, perhaps rebounding, may 


Just as it touched, the martyr's palm, 


Echo beyond the Mexique bay. 


He turns him to his task below : 






Thus sang they, in the English boat. 


The pastoral staff, the keys of heaven. 


A holy and a cheerful note ; 


To wield awhUe in gray-haired might — 


And all the way, to guide their chime, 


Then from his cross to spring forgiven, 


With falling oars they kept the time. 


And follow Jesus out of sight. 


Andrew Makvell. 


John Keble. 






^Qtnn of x\\z j^cbuto iHaiir. 


S[l)e ©migrants in Berntubaa. 


When Israel, of the Lord beloved. 




Out from the land of bondage came, 


Where the remote Bermudas ride 


Her father's God before her moved. 


In th' ocean's bosom, unespied — 


An awful guide in smoke and flame. 


From a small boat, that rowed along. 


By day, along the astonished lands 


The list'uing winds received this song : 


The cloudy pillar glided slow ; 




By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands 


What should we do but sing His praise 


Returned the fiery column's glow. 


That led us through the watery maze 




Unto an isle so long unknown, 


There rose the choral hymn of praise, 


And yet far kinder than our own ? 


And trump and timbrel answered keen ; 


Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks 


And Zion's daughters poured their lays. 


That lift the deep upon their backs. 


With priest's and warrior's voice between. 


He lands us on a grassy stage, 


No portents now our foes amaze — 


Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage. 


Forsaken Israel wanders lone ; 


He gave us this eternal spring 


Our fathers would not know Thy ways. 


Which here enamels every thing. 


And Thou hast left them to their own. 


And sends the fowls to us in care, 




On daily visits through the air. 


But, present still, though now unseen, 


He hangs in shades the orange bright. 


When brightly shines the prosperous day. 


Like golden lamps in a green night. 


Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen. 


And does in the pomegranates close 


To temper the deceitful ray. 


Jewels more rich than Ormus shows. 


And oh, when stoops on Judali's path 


He makes the figs our mouths to meet. 


In shade and storm the frequent night, 


And throws the melons at our feet. 


Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath. 


But apples — plants of such a price 


A burning and a shining light ! 


No tree could ever bear them twice. 




With cedars, chosen by His hand' 


Our harps we left by Babel's streams — 


From Lebanon, He stores the land ; 


The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; 


And makes the hollow seas, that roar, 


No censer round our altar beams, 


Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 


And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn. 



MY PSALM. 



815 



But Thou hast said, the blood of goats, 
The flesh of rams, I will not prize — 

A contrite heart, and humble thoughts. 
Are mine accepted sacrifice. 

Sm Walter Scott. 



®l)e Caborcr'0 Noonbag igji^n. 

Up to the throne of God is borne 
The voice of praise at early morn. 
And He accepts the pimetual hymn 
Sung as the light of day grows dim ; 

Nor wiU He turn his ear aside 
From holy offerings at noontide : 
Then, here reposing, let us raise 
A song of gratitude and praise. 

What though our burden be not light, 
We need not toil from morn to night ; 
The respite of the mid-day hour 
Is in the thankful creature's power. 

Blest are the moments, doubly blest. 
That, drawn from this one hour of rest. 
Are with a ready heart bestowed 
Upon the service of our God ! 

Each field is then a hallowed spot — 
An altar is in each man's cot, 
A church in every grove that spreads 
Its living roof above our heads. 

Look up to heaven ! the industrious sun 
Already half his race hath run ; 
He cannot halt nor go astray — 
But our immortal spirits may. 

Lord, since his rising in the east 
If we have faltered or transgressed, 
Guide, from Thy love's abundant source, 
What yet remains of this day's course. 

Help with Thy grace, through life's short day, 
Our upward and our downward way ; 
And glorify for us the west, 
Wlien we shall sink to final rest. 

William Wordsworth. 



ills |)solin. 

I MOURN no more my vanished years : 

Beneath a tender rain, 
An April rain of smiles and tears, 

My heart is young again. 

The west-winds blow, and, singing low, 
I hear the glad streams run ; 

The windows of my soul I throw 
Wide open to the sun. 

No longer forward nor behind 

I look in hope or fear ; 
But, grateful, take the good I find, 

The best of now and here. 

I plough no more a desert land. 

To harvest weed and tare ; 
The manna dropping from God's hand 

Rebukes my painful care. 

I break my pilgrim staff, — I lay 

Aside the toiling oar ; 
The angel sought so far away 

I welcome at my door. 

The airs of spring may never play 

Among the ripening corn. 
Nor freshness of the flowers of May 

Blow through the autumn morn ; 

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look 
Through fringed lids to heaven, 

And the pale aster in the brook 
Shall see its image given ; 

The woods shall wear their robes of praise, 

The south-wind softly sigh. 
And sweet, calm days in golden haze 

Melt down the amber sky. 

Not less shall manly deed and word 

Rebuke an age of wrong ; 
The graven flowers that wreathe the sword 

Make not the blade less strong. 

But smiting hands shall learn to heal, — 

To build as to destroy ; 
Nor less my heart for others feel 

That I the more enjoy. 



816 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 

1 


All as God wills, who wisely heeds 


Is it to fast an hour — 


To give or to withhold, 


Or ragged to go — 


And knoweth more of all my needs 


Or show 


Than all my prayers have told ! 


A downcast look, and sour ? 


Enough that blessings undeserved 


No ! 'tis a fast to dole 


Have marked my erring track ; 


Thy sheaf of wheat, 


That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved. 


And meat, 


His chasteniag turned me back ; 


Unto the hungry soul. 


That more and more a Providence 


It is to fast from strife, 


Of love is understood, 


Prom old debate 


Making the springs of time and sense 


And hate — 


Sweet with eternal good ; 


To circumcise thy life. 




To show a heart grief -rent ; 


That death seems but a covered way 


To starve thy sin, 


Which opens into light, 


Not bin — 


Wherein no blinded child can stray 


And that 's to keep thy lent. 


Beyond the Father's sight ; 






KOBKBT HeERICK. 


That care and trial seem at last, 




Through Memory's sunset air, 




Like mountain-ranges overpast, 


aije Wriest. 


In purple distance fair ; 


' *i 




I WOULD I were an excellent divine 


That all the jarring notes of life 


That had the Bible at my fingers' ends ; 


Seem blending in a psalm. 


That men might hear out of this mouth of mine. 


And all the angles of its strife 


How God doth make His enemies His friends ; 


Slow rounding into calm. 


Eather than with a thundering and long prayer 




Be led into presumption, or despair. 


And so the shadows fall apart. 




And so the west-winds play ; 


This would I be, and would none other be — 


And all the windows of my heart 


But a religious servant of my God ; 


I open to the day. 


And know there is none other God but He, 


John Gbbbnleai' Whittiee. 


And willingly to suffer mercy's rod — 




Joy in His grace, and live but in His love, 




And seek my bliss but in the world above. 


QCo Eecp a (Erue Cent. 


And I would frame a kind of faithful prayer. 




For all estates within the state of grace, 


Is this a fast — to keep 


That careful love might never know despair. 


The larder lean. 


Nor servile fear might faithful love deface ; 


And clean 


And this would I both day and night devise 


From fat of veals and sheep ? 


To make my humble spirit's exercise. 


Is it to quit the dish ' 


And I would read the rules of sacred life ; 


Of flesh, yet stiU 


Persuade the troubled soul to patience ; 


To fill 


The husband care, and comfort to the wife, 


The platter high with fish ? 


To child and servant due obedience ; 



ON A PRATER-BOOK SENT TO MRS. M. R. 



817 



Faith to the friend, and to the neighbor peace, 
That love might live, and quarrels all might cease. 

Prayer for the health of all that are diseased, 
Confession unto all that are convicted. 

And patience unto all that are displeased, 
And comfort unto all that are afflicted, 

And mercy unto all that have ofEended, 

And grace to all : that all may be amended. 

Nicholas Breton. 



The bird that soars on highest wing 
Builds on the ground her lowly nest ; 

And she that doth most sweetly sing 
Sings in the shade, where all things rest ; 

In lark and nightingale we see 

What honor hath humility. 

When Mary chose " the better part," 

She meekly sat at Jesus' feet ; 
And Lydia's gently opened heart 

Was made for God's own temple meet : 
Fairest and best adorned is she 
Whose clothing is humility. 

The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown. 

In deepest adoration bends : 
The weight of glory bows him down 

Then most, when most his soul ascends : 
Nearest the throne itself must be 
The footstool of humility. 

Jambs Montgomert. 



®n a IJraaer-Sook Sent to iHrs. ill. H. 

Lo ! here a little volume, but great book, 

(Fear it not, sweet — 

It is no hypocrite ! ) 
Much larger in itself than in its look ! 

It is — in one rich handful — heaven and all 
Heaven's royal hosts encamped — thus small 
To prove, that true schools use to tell, 
A thousand angels in one point can dweU. 
It is love's great artillery, 
Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie 
54 



Close couched in your white bosom, and from 

thence. 
As from a snowy fortress of defence. 
Against the ghostly foe to take your part. 
And fortify the hold of your chaste heart. 

It is the armory of light — 

Let constant use but keep it bright, 

You'll find it yields 
To holy hands and humble hearts 

More swords and shields 
Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts. 

Only be sure 

The hands be pure 
That hold these weapons, and the eyes 
Those of turtles — chaste and true. 

Wakeful and wise, 
Here is a friend shall fight for you ; 
Hold but this book before your heart — 
Let prayer alone to play his part. 

But oh ! the heart 
That studies this high art 
Must be a sure house-keeper, 
And yet no sleeper. 

Dear soul, be strong — 
Mercy will come ere long. 
And bring her bosom full of blessings — 

Flowers of never-fading graces, 
To make immortal dressings 
For worthy souls, whose wise embraces 
Store up themselves for Him who is alone 
The spouse of virgins, and the virgin's son. 

But if the noble bridegroom, when he comes. 
Shall find the wandering heart from home. 
Leaving her chaste abode 
To gad abroad — 
Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies 
To take her pleasures, and to play. 
And keep the devil's holiday — 
To dance in the sunshine of some smiling, 
But beguiling — 

Spear of sweet and sugared lies — 

Some slippery pair 

Of false, perhaps as fair, 
Flattering but forswearing eyes — 



818 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Doubtless some other heart 
Will get the start, 
And, stepping in before, 
Will take possession of the sacred store 
Of hidden sweets and holy joys — 
Words which are not heard with ears, 
(These tumultuous shops of noise) 
Effectual whispers, whose still voice 
The soul itself more feels than hears — 

Amorous languishments, luminous trances. 

Sights which are not seen with eyes — 
Spiritual and soul-piercing glances, 
Whose pure and subtle lightning flies 
Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire. 
And melts it down in sweet desire ; 

Yet doth not stay 
To ask the windows leave to pass that way — 
Delicious deaths, soft exhalations 
Of soul, dear and divine annihilations — 
A thousand unknown rites 
Of Joys and rarefied delights — 
An hundred thousand loves and graces. 

And many a mystic thing 
Which the divine embraces 
Of the dear Spouse of spirits with them will bring. 

For which it is no shame 
That dull mortality must not know a name. 
Of all this hidden store 
Of blessings, and ten thousand more, 

If, when He come. 
He find the heart from home. 
Doubtless He will unload 
Himself some otherwhere. 
And pour abroad 
His precious sweets 
On the fair soul whom first He meets. 

Oh fair ! oh fortunate ! oh rich ! oh dear ! 
Oh happy and thrice happy she ■>— ' 

Dear silver-breasted dove, 
Whoe'er she be — 
Whose early love 
With winged vows 
Makes haste to meet her morning spouse. 
And close with His immortal kisses — 
Happy soul ! who never misses 

To improve that precious hour. 



And every day 

Seize her sweet prey — 
All fresh and fragrant as He rises. 
Dropping with a balmy shower, 
A delicious dew of spices ! 

Oh ! let that happy soul hold fast 
Her heavenly armful ; she shall taste 
At once ten thousand paradises — 
She shall have power 
To rifle and deflower 
The rich and roseal spring of those rare sweets 
Which, with a swelling bosom, there she meets- 
Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures 
Of pure inebriating pleasures : 
Happy soul ! she shall discover 
What joy, what bliss, 
How many heavens at once, it is 
To have a God become her lover. 

RlCHABD CRASHAW. 



ei:i)e ©rnc llse of iHttsic. 

Listed into the cause of sin, 

Why should a good be evil ? 
Music, alas ! too long has been 

Pressed to obey the devil — 
Drunken, or lewd, or light, the lay 

Flowed to the soul's undoing — 
Widened and strewed with flowers, way 

Down to eternal ruin. 

Who on the part of God will rise. 

Innocent sound recover — 
Fly on the prey, and take the prize. 

Plunder the carnal lover — 
Sti-ip him of every moving strain, 

Every melting measure — 
Music in virtue's cause retain, 

Kescue the holy pleasure ? 

Come let us try if Jesus' love 

Will not as well inspire us ; 
This is the theme of those above — 

This upon earth shall fire us. 
Say, if your hearts are tuned to sing 

Is there a subject greater? 
Harmony all its strains may bring ; 

Jesus' name is sweeter. 



THE FIELD OF TEE WOULD. 



819 



Jesus the soul of music is — 

His is the noblest passion ; 
Jesus' name is Joy and peace, 

Happiness and salvation ; 
Jesus' name the dead can raise — 

Show us our sins forgiven — 
Fill us with all the life of grace — 

Carry us up to heaven. 

Who hath a right like us to sing — 

Us whom His mercy raises ? 
Merry our hearts, for Christ is King ; 

Cheerful are all our faces ; 
Who of His love doth once partake 

He evermore rejoices ; 
Melody in our hearts we make — 

Melody with our voices. 

He that a sprinkled conscience hath — 

He that in God is merry — 
Let him sing psalms, the Spirit saith, 

Joyful and never weary ; 
Offer the sacrifice of praise, 

Hearty and never ceasing — 
Spiritual songs and anthems raise, 

Honor, and thanks, and blessing. 

Then let us in His praises join — 

Triumph in His salvation ; 
Glory ascribe to love divine, 

Worship and adoration ; 
Heaven already is begun — 

Opened in each believer ; 
Only believe, and still sing on : 

Heaven is ours for ever. 

Charles Weslbt. 



a;i}e Sicib of tlie toorlb. 

Sow in the morn thy seed. 
At eve hold not thine hand — 
To doubt and fear give thou no heed — 
Broad-cast it o'er the land. 

Beside all waters sow, 
The highway furrows stock — 
Drop it where thorns and thistles grow, 
Scatter it on the rock. 



The good, the fruitful ground 
Expect not here nor there ; 
O'er hill and dale by plots 'tis found ; 
Go forth, then, everywhere. 

Thou know'st not which may thrive — 
The late or early sown ; 
Grace keeps the precious germs alive, 
When and wherever strown. 

And duly shall appear. 

In verdure, beauty, strength. 

The tender blade, the stalk, the ear, 

And the full corn at length. 

Thou canst not toil in vain — 
Cold, heat, and moist, and dry 
Shall foster and mature the grain 
For garners in the sky. 

Thence, when the glorious end, 
The day of God is come. 
The angel-reapers shall descend. 

And heaven cry " Harvest home ! " 

Jambs Montgomery. 



Flung to the heedless winds, 

Or on the waters cast. 
The martyrs' ashes, watched, 

Shall gathered be at last ; 
And from that scattered dust. 

Around us and abroad. 
Shall spring a plenteous seed 

Of witnesses for God. 

The Father hath received 

Their latest living breath ; 
And vain is Satan's boast 

Of victory in their death ; 
Still, still, though dead, they speak. 

And trumpet-tongued proclaim. 
To many a wakening land. 

The one availing name. 

Martin Luther. 
Translation of WraiAM John Fox. 



820 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



tol)at is |)ra2er? 

Prayer is the soul's sincere desire, 

Uttered or unexpressed — 
The motion of a hidden fire 

That trembles in the breast. 

Prayer is the burthen of a sigh, 

The falling of a tear — 
The upward glancing of an eye, 

"When none but God is near. 

Prayer is the simplest form of speech 

That infant lips can tiy — 
Prayer the sublimest strains that reach 

The majesty on high. 

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice 

Returning from his ways, 
While angels in their songs rejoice, 

And cry, " Behold he prays ! " 

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath — 

The Christian's native air — 
His watchword at the gates of death — 

He enters heaven with prayer. 

The saints in prayer appear as one 

In word, and deed, and mind, 
"While with the Father and the Son 

Sweet fellowship they find. 

Nor prayer is made by man alone — 

The Holy Spirit pleads — 
And Jesus, on the eternal throne. 

For sinners intercedes. 

O Thou by whom we come to God — 

The life, the truth, the way ! 
The path of prayer Thyself hast trod ; 

Lord, teach us how to pray ! 

James Montgomery. 



In darker days and nights of storm. 
Men knew Thee but to fear thy form ; 
And in the reddest lightning saw 
Thine arm avenge insulted law. 



In brighter days we read Thy love 
In flowers beneath, in stars above ; 
And in the track of every storm 
Behold Thy beauty's rainbow form. 

And in the reddest lightning's path 
We see no vestiges of wrath. 
But always wisdom, — perfect love. 
From flowers beneath to stars above. 

See, from on high sweet influence rains 
On palace, cottage, mountains, plains ; 
No hour of wrath shall mortal fear. 
For Thou, the God of Love, art here. 

Theodore Parker. 



STrnBt in |Jrot)ibencc. 

While Thee I seek, protecting Power, 

Be my vain wishes stilled ; 
And may this consecrated hour 

With better hopes be filled. 

Thy love the power of thought bestowed ; 

To Thee my thoughts would soar: 
Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed ; 

That mercy I adore ! 

In each event of life, how clear 

Thy ruling hand I see ! 
Each blessing to my soul more dear 

Because conferred by Thee ! 

In every joy that crowns my days. 

In every pain I bear. 
My heart shall find delight in praise, 

Or seek relief in prayer. 

When gladness wings my favored hour. 
Thy love my thoughts shall fill ; 

Resigned, when storms of sorrow lower. 
My soul shall meet Thy will. 

My lifted eye, without a tear. 
The gathering storm shall see ; 

My steadfast heart shall know no fear : 
That heart shall rest on Thee ! 

Helen Maria 'Williams. 






OH, YET WE TRUST. 821 




Of this wicked heart of mine 


©1), 2ct we QTrnst. 


Think upon that love divine. 




That doth tune the angels' voices 


Oh, yet we trust that somehow good 


While the host of heaven rejoices ? 


Will be the final goal of ill, 




To pangs of nature, sins of will, 


No ! the song of deadly sorrow 


Defects of doubt and taints of blood ; 


In the night that hath no morrow — 




And theii- pains are never ended 


That nothing walks with aimless feet. 


That have heavenly powers offended — 


That not one life shall be destroyed. 


Is more fitting to the merit 


Or east as rubbish to the void. 


Of my foul infected spirit. 


When God hath made the pile complete ; 






Yet while mercy is removing 


That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 


All the sorrows of the loving. 


That not a moth with vain desire 


How can faith be full of blindness 


Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, 


To despair of mercy's kindness — 


Or but subserves another's gain. 


While the hand of Heaven is giving 




Comfort from the ever-living ? 


Behold ! we know not any thing ; 




I can but trust that good shall fall 


No, my soul, be no more sorry — 


At last — far ofE — at last, to all — 


Look unto that life of glory 


And every winter change to spring. 


Which the grace of faith regardeth. 




And the tears of love rewardeth — 


So i-uns my dream ; but what am I ? 


Where the soul the comfort getteth 


An infant crying in the night — 


That the angels' music setteth. 


An infant crying for the light — 


There — when thou art well conducted. 


And with no language but a cry. 


And by heavenly grace instructed 


Alfred Tennyson. 


How the faithful thoughts to fashion 




Of a ravished lover's passion — 




Sing with saints, to angels nighest, 


/I* 


Hallelujah in the highest ! 


i^Btnn. 


Gloria in excelsis Domino ! 


When the angels all are singing, 


Nicholas Breton. 


All of glory ever-springing. 




In the ground of heaven's high graces 




Where all virtues have their places. 
Oh that my poor soul were near them, 


Qfxliortation to flragcr. 


With an humble faith to hear them ! 


Not on a prayerless bed, not on a prayerless bed 




Compose thy weary limbs to rest ; 


Then should faith, in love's submission, 


For they alone are blessed 


Joying but in mercy's blessing, 


With balmy sleep . 


Where that sins are in remission 


Whom angels keep ; 


Sing the joyful soul's confessing — 


Nor, though by care oppressed. 


Of her comforts high commending. 


Or anxious sorrow. 


All in glory never-ending. 


Or thought in many a coil perplexed 




For coming morrow, 


But, ah wretched sinful creature ! 


Lay not thy head 


How should the corrupted nature 


On prayerless bed. 



832 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



For who can tell, when sleep thine eyes shall close, 
That earthly cares and woes 
To thee may e'er return ? 
Arouse, my soul ! 
Slumber control. 
And let thy lamp burn brightly; 

So shall thine eyes discern 
Things pure and sightly ; 
Taught by the Spirit, learn 
Never on prayerless bed 
To lay thine unblest head. 

Hast thou no pining want, or wish, or care, 
That calls for holy prayer? 
Has thy day been so bright 

That in its flight 
There is no trace of sorrow ? 
And thou art sure to-morrow 
Will be like this, and more 
Abundant ? Dost thou yet lay up thy store 
And still make plans for more? 

Tliou fool ! this very night 
Thy soul may wing its flight. 

Hast thou no being than thyself more dear, 
That ploughs the ocean deep, 
And when storms sweep 
The wintry, lowering sky. 
For whom thou wak'st and weepest? 
Oh, when thy pangs are deepest. 
Seek then the covenant ark of prayer ; 
For He that slumbereth not is there ■ — 
His ear is open to thy cry. 
Oh, then, on prayerless bed 
Lay not thy thoughtless head. 

Arouse thee, weary soul, nor yield to slumber. 
Till in communion blest 
With the elect ye rest — 
Those souls of countless number ; 
And with them raise 
The note of praise, 
Reaching from earth to heaven — 
Chosen, redeemed, forgiven ; 
So lay thy happy head, « 
Prayer-crowned, on blessed bed. 

Mabgabbt Mbbcee. 



Her eyes are homes of silent prayer ; 
Nor other thought her mind admits 
But — he was dead, and there he sits, 

And He that brought him back is there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother's face, 

And rests upon the life indeed. 

AU subtle thought, all curious fears, 

Borne down by gladness so complete. 
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet 

With costly spikenard and with tears. 

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, 
Whose loves in higher love endure ; 
What souls possess themselves so pure, 

Or is there blessedness like theirs ? 

Alfred Tennyson. 



lo^ avCii |)eare in BelietJing. 

Sometimes a light surprises 

The Christian while he sings; 
It is the Lord, who rises 

With healing in His wings. 
When comforts are declining. 

He grants the soul again 
A season of clear shining, 

To cheer it after rain. 

In holy contemplation. 

We sweetly then pursue 
The theme of God's salvation. 

And find it ever new ; 
Set free from present sorrow. 

We cheerfully can say. 
E'en let the unknown to-morrow 

Bring with it what it may 1 

It can bring with it nothing 
But He will bear us through ; 

Who gives the lilies clothing 
Will clothe His people too. 



CHARITY. 823 


Beneath the spreading heavens, 


Knowledge shall vanish out of thought. 


No creatm-e but is fed ; 


And miracles no more be wrought ; 


And He who feeds the ravens 


But charity shall never fail — 


Will give His children bread. 


Her anchor is within the veil. 




James Montgomery. 


The vine nor fig-tree neither 




Their wonted fruit should bear. 




Though all the fields should wither, 
jSTor flocks nor herds be there : 


SDesiring to f.ax>t. 


Yet God the same abiding 


Love divine, how sweet Thou art ! 


His praise shall tune my voice. 


When shall I find my willing heart 


For, while in Him confiding. 


All taken up by Theel 


I cannot but rejoice. 


I thirst, and faint, and die to prove 


William Cowper. 


The greatness of redeeming love. 




The love of Christ to me. 




Stronger His love than death or hell ; 


€l)arits. 


Its riches are unsearchable ; 




The first-born sons of light 


Could I command, with voice or pen. 


Desire in vain its depths to see — 


The tongues of angels and of men. 


They cannot reach the mystery. 


A tinkling cymbal, sounding brass. 


The length, and breadth, and height. 


My speech and preaching would surpass ; 




Vain were such eloquence to me. 


God only knows the love of God — 


"Without the grace of charity. 


that it now were shed abroad 




In this poor stony heart ! 


Could T the martj'r's flame endure, 


For love I sigh, for love I pine ; 


Give all my goods to feed the poor — 


This only portion. Lord, be mine — 


Had I the faith from Alpine steep 


Be mine this better part. 


To hurl the mountain to the deep — 




What were such zeal, such power to me 


that I could for ever sit 


Without the grace of charity ? 


With Mary at the Master's feet 1 




Be this my happy choice — 


Could I behold with prescient eye 


My only care, delight, and bliss. 


Things future, as the things gone by — 


My joy, my heaven on earth, be this — 


Could I all earthly knowledge scan. 


To hear the bridegroom's voice. 


And mete out heaven with a span — 


Oh that, with humbled Peter, I 


Poor were the chief of gifts to me 


Could weep, believe, and thrice reply, 
My faithfulness to prove ! 


Without the chiefest, charity. 




Thou knowest, for aU to Thee is known — 


Charity suffers long, is kind — 


Thou knowest, Lord, and Thou alone — 


Charity bears a humble mind. 


Thou knowest that Thee I love. 


Eejoices not when ills befall, 




But glories in the weel of all ; 


that I could, with favored John, 


She hopes, believes, and envies not, . 


Recline my weary head upon 


Nor vaunts, nor murmurs o'er her lot. 


The dear Redeemer's breast ! 




From care, and sin, and sorrow free, 


The tongiies of teachers shall be dumb, 


Give me, Lord, to find in Thee 


Prophets discern not things to come. 


My everlasting rest ! 



824 POEMS OF RELIGION. 


Thy only love do I require — 


Make me Thy duteous child, that I 


Nothing in earth beneath desire, 


Ceaseless may " Abba, Ifather," cry ! 


Nothing in heaven above ! 




Let earth and heaven and all things go — 


Ah, no ! ne'er will I backward turn — 


Give me Thy only love to know, 


Thine wholly. Thine alone I am ; 


Give me Thy only love ! 


Thrice happy he who views with scorn 


Chaklbs Wesley. 


Earth's toys, for Thee his constant flame. 




Oh, help, that I may never move 




From the blest footsteps of Thy love ! 


SDitjine tont. 


Each moment draw from earth away 


Thou hidden love of God ! whose height, 


My heart, that lowly waits Thy call ; 


"Whose depth unfathomed, no man knows — 


Speak to my inmost soul, and say. 


I see from far Thy beauteous light. 


" I am thy love, thy God, thy all ! " 


Inly I sigh for Thy repose. 


To feel Thy power, to hear Thy voice, 


My heart is pained ; nor can it be 


To taste Thy love, be all my choice. 


At rest till it finds rest in Thee. 


Gerhard Tersteeoen. (German.) 




Translation of John Wesley. 


Thy secret voice invites me still 




The sweetness of Thy yoke to prove ; 




And fain I would ; but though my will 


£ox jSelierers. 


Seem fixed, yet wide my passions rove ; 




Yet hindrances strew all the way — 


Thou hidden source of calm repose, 


I aim at Thee, yet from Thee stray. 


Thou all-sufiicient love divine. 




My help and refuge from my foes, 


'Tis mercy all, that Thou hast brought 


Secure I am if Thou art mine ! 


My mind to seek her peace in Thee ! 


And lo ! from sin, and grief, and shame, 


Yet while I seek, but find Thee not. 


I hide me, Jesus, in Thy name. 


No peace my wandering soul shall see. 




Oh when shall all my wanderings end, 


Thy mighty name salvation is, 


And all my steps to Theeward tend ? 


And keeps my happy soul above ; 




Comfort it brings, and power, and peace, 


Is there a thing beneath the sun 


And Joy, and everlasting love ; 


That strives with Thee my heart to share ? 


To me, with Thy dear name, are given 


Ah, tear it thence, and reign alone — 


Pardon, and holiness, and heaven. 


The Lord of every motion there ! 




Then shall my heart from earth be free, 


Jesus, my all in all Thou art — 


When it hath found repose in Thee. 


My rest in toil, my ease in pain ; 




The medicine of my broken heart ; 


Oh hide this self from me, that I 


In war my peace ; in loss my gain ; 


No more, but Christ in me, may live ! 


My smile beneath the tyrant's frown ; 


My vile affections crucify. 


In shame my glory and my crown : 


Nor let one darling lust survive ! 




In all things nothing may I see. 


In want my plentiful supply ; 


Nothing desire or seek, but Thee. 


In weakness my almighty power ; 




In bonds my perfect liberty ; 


Love, Thy sovereign aid impart • 


My light in Satan's darkest hour ; 


To save me from low-thoughted care ; 


In grief my joy unspeakable ; 


Chase this self-will through all my heart. 


My life in death, my heaven in hell. 


Through all its latent mazes there ; 


Charles Wesley. 



LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT. 825 




When the flames and hellish cries 


Citana to i\\t ^o\^ Spirit. 


Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes. 




And all terrors me surprise, 


In the hour of my distress, 


Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


When temptations me oppress, 




And when I my sins confess, 


When the judgment is revealed. 


Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


And that opened which was sealed — 


When I lie within my bed, 
Sick at heart, and sick in head, 


When to Thee I have appealed. 


Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


And with doubts discomforted, 


EOBEBT HeRBICK. 


Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 




When the house doth sigh and weep, 




And the world is drowned in sleep. 


^\\z ^^\xi% (Uliristion to J)i6 Soul 


Yet mine eyes the watch do keep. 




Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


Vital spark of heavenly flame. 




Quit, oh quit this mortal frame ! 


When the artless doctor sees 


Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying — 


No one hope, but of his fees. 


Oh the pain, the bliss of dying ! 


And his skiU runs on the lees, 


Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife. 


Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


And let me languish into life ! 


When his potion and his pill. 
His or none or little skill, 


Hark ! they whisper : angels say. 


Meet for nothing, but to kill — 


Sister spirit, come away ! 
What is this absorbs me quite. 


Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


Steals my senses, shuts my sight. 


When the passing-bell doth toll. 


Drowns my spirit, draws my breath ? 


And the Furies, in a shoal. 


Tell me, my soul ! can this be death ? 


Come to fright a parting soul. 




Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


The world recedes — it disappears; 




Heaven opens on my eyes ; my ears 


When the tapers now burn blue, 


With sounds seraphic ring : 


And the comforters are few. 


Lend, lend your wings ! I mount, I fly ! 


And that number more than true. 


grave, where is thy victory ? 


Sweet Spu-it, comfort me ! 


death, where is thy sting f 


When the priest his last hath prayed, 


Alexander Pope. 


And I nod to what is said 




Because my speech is now decayed. 




Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


®l), Stat not (SIlou to JUic. 


When, God knows, I'm tost about 




Either with despair or doubt. 


Oh, fear not thou to die — 


Yet before the glass be out. 


Far rather fear to live ! — for life 


Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


Has thousand snares thy feet to try. 




By peril, pain, and strife. 


When the tempter me pursu'th 


Brief is the work of death ; 


With the sins of all my youth. 


But life — the spirit shrinks to see 


And half damns me with untruth, 


How full, ere Heaven recalls the breath, 


Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


The cup of woe may be. 




836 POEMS OF RELIGION. 


Oh, fear not thou to die — 




No more to suffer or to sin — 


@ri)e Canir begoni il)e 6ca. 


No snare without, thy faith to try — 




No traitor heart within ; 


The Land beyond the Sea ! 


But fear, oh rather fear 


When will life's task be o'er ? 


The gay, the light, the changeful scene, 


When shall we reach that soft blue shore, 


The flattering smiles that greet thee here, 


O'er the dark strait whose billows foam and roar ? 


From heaven thy heart to wean. 


When shall we come to thee, 




Calm Land beyond the Sea ? 


Oh, fear not thou to die — 




To die and be that blessed one 


The Land beyond the Sea ! 


Who in the bright and beauteous sky 


How close it often seems, 


May feel his conflict done — 


When flushed with evening's peaceful gleams ; 


May feel that never more 


And the wistful heart looks o'er the strait, and 


The tear of grief, of shame, shall come, 


dreams ! 


For thousand wanderings from the power 


It longs to fly to thee, 


Who loved and called thee home. 


Calm Land beyond the Sea I 


Anonymous. 


The Land beyond the Sea ! 




Sometimes distinct and near 




It grows upon the eye and ear, 


KcBt ia not f crc. 


And the gulf narrows to a threadlike mere ; 


What 's this vain world to me ? 


We seem half-way to thee. 


Best is not here ; 


Calm Land beyond the Sea ! 


False are the smiles I see, 


The Land beyond the Sea ! 


The mirth I hear. 


Sometimes across the strait. 


Where is youth's joyful glee 1 


Like a drawbridge to a castle-gate, 


Where all once dear to me ? 


The slanting sunbeams lie, arid seem to wait 


Gone as the shadows flee — 


For us to pass to thee, 


Eest is not here. 


Calm Land beyond the Sea ! 


Why did the morning shine 


The Land beyond the Sea ! 


Blithely and fair ? 


Oh, how the lapsing years, 


Why did those tints so fine 


'Mid our not unsubmissive tears. 


Vanish in air ? 


Have borne, now singly, now in fleets, the biers 


Does not the vision say. 


Of those we love to thee, 


Paint lingering heart, away, 


Calm Land beyond the Sea ! 


Why in this desert stay — 




Dark land of care ! 


The Land beyond the Sea ! 




How dark our present home ! 


Where souls angelic soar, 


By the dull beach and sullen foam 


Thither repair : 


How wearily, how drearily we roam. 


Let this vain world no more 


With arms outstretched to thee. 


Lull and ensnare. 


Calm Land beyond the Sea ! 


That heaven I love so well 




Still in my heart shall dwell ; » 


The Land beyond the Sea ! 


All things around me tell 


When will our toil be done ? 


Eest is found there. 


Slow-footed years, more swiftly ran 


Lady Nairnb. 


Into the gold of that unsetting sun ! 



THE LAND 


' THE LEAL. 827 


Homesick we are for thee, 


hand ye leal and true, John ; 


Calm Land beyond the Sea ! 


Your day it 's wearin' through, John, 




And I'll welcome you 


The Land beyond the Sea ! 


To the land o' the leal. 


Why fadest thou in light ? 


Now fare ye weel, my ain John ! 


Why art thou better seen toward night ? 


This warld's cares are vain, John ; 


Deal" Land, look always plain, look always bright. 


We'll meet, and we'll be fain. 


That we may gaze on thee, 


I' the land o' the leal. 


Calm Land beyond the Sea ! 


Lady Nairne. 


The Land beyond the Sea ! 




Sweet is thine endless rest. 


fiiimn. 


But sweeter far that Father's breast 


■^ -^^ 


Upon thy shores eternally possest ; 


Brother, thou art gone before us, 


For Jesus reigns o'er thee, 


And thy saintly soul is flown 


Calm Land beyond the Sea ! 


Where tears are wiped from eveiy eye. 


Frederick Welliam Faber. 


And sorrow is unknown — 




From the burden of the flesh. 




And from care and sin released. 




"Where the wicked cease from troubling. 


@:i)e f anb o' t\)z leal 


And the weary are at rest. 


I'm wearin' awa', John, 


The toilsome way thou 'st travelled o'er. 


Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John ; 


And hast borne the heavy load ; 


I'm wearin' awa' 


But Christ hath taught thy wandering feet 


To the land o' the leal. 


To reach His blest abode. 


There 's nae sorrow there, John ; 


Thou 'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus, 


There 's neither cauld nor care, John ; 


On his Father's faithful breast, 


The day is aye fair 


Where the wicked cease from troubling. 


1' the land o' the leal. 


And the weary are at rest. 


Our bonnie bairn 's there, John ; 


Sin can never taint thee now, 


She was baith gude and fair, John ; 


Nor can doubt thy faith assail ; 


And oh, we grudged her sair 


Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ 


To the land o' the leal. 


And the Holy Spirit fail. 


But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, 


And there thou 'rt sure to meet the good, 


And Joy 's a-eomin' fast, John, 


Whom on earth thou lovest best, 


The joy that 's aye to last 


Where the wicked cease from troubling, 


I' the land o' the leal. 


And the weary are at rest. 


Sae dear 's that joy was bought, John, 


"Earth to earth, and dust to dust," 


Sae free the battle fought, John, 


Thus the solemn priest hath said — 


That sinfu' man e'er brought 


So we lay the turf above thee now. 


To the land o' the leal. 


And seal thy narrow bed ; 


dry your glistening e'e, John. 


But thy spirit, brother, soars away 


My soul langs to be free, John, 


Among the faithful blest. 


And angels beckon me 


WTiere the wicked cease from troubling. 


To the land o' the leal. 


And the weary are at rest. 



828 POEMS OF RELIGION. 


And when the Lord shall summon us 


The Saviour has passed through its portals before 


Whom thou now hast left behind, 


thee, 


May we, untainted by the world, 


And the lamp of His love is thy guide through 


As sure a welcome find ; 


the gloom. 


May each, like thee, depart in peace. 




To be a glorious guest. 


Thou art gone to the grave — we no longer behold 


Where the wicked cease from troubling, 


thee, 


And the weary are at rest ! 


Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side ; 


Henry Hart Milman. 


But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold 




thee. 




And sinners may hope, since the Sinless has died. 


finitin. 




^w 


Thou art gone to the grave — and, its mansion for- 


When rising from the bed of death, 


saking. 


O'erwhelmed with giiilt and fear, 


Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long, 


1 see my Maker face to face, 


But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy 


Oh, how shall I appear ? 


waking, 




And the song which thou heard'st was the sera- 


If yet while pardon may be found. 
And mercy may be sought, 


phim's song. 


My heart with inward horror shrinks, 


Thou art gone to the grave — but 'twere wrong to 


And trembles at the thought — 


deplore thee. 


When Thou, Lord, shalt stand disclosed 


When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy 


In majesty severe, 


guide ; 


And sit in judgment on my soul, 


He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore 


Oh, how shall I appear ? 


thee. 




Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour 


But Thou hast told the troubled mind 


hath died. KEorNAi-D Heber. 


Who does her sins lament. 




The timely tribute of her tears 




Shall endless woe prevent. 


SDcatl). 


Then see the sorrows of my heart 


Ere yet it be too late, 


Ah, lovely appearance of death ! 


And hear my Saviour's dying groans 


What sight upon earth is so fair? 


To give those sorrows weight. 


Not all the gay pageants that breathe 




Can with a dead body compare ; 


For never shall my soul despair 


With solemn delight I survey 


Her pardon to procure, 


The corpse, when the spirit is fled — 


Who knows Thine only Son has died 


In love with the beautiful clay. 


To make her pardon sure. 


And longing to lie in its stead. 


Joseph Addison. 






How blest is our brother, bereft 




Of all that could burden his mind ! 


Sljott art ©one to tl)e (©raoc. 


How easy the soul that has left 




This wearisome body behind ! 


Thou art gone to the grave — but we '^'A\ not de- 


Of evil incapable, thou. 


plore thee, 


Whose relies with envy I see — 


Though sorrows and darkness encompass the 


No longer in misery now. 


tomb; 


No longer a sinner like me. 



FOR A WIDOWER OR WIDOW. 829 


This earth is affected no more 


And now my life's delight is gone, 


With sickness, or shaken with pain ; 


Alas, how am I left alone ! 


The war in the members is o'er, 




And never shall vex him again ; 


The voice which I did more esteem 


No anger henceforward, or shame, 


Than music in her sweetest key. 


Shall redden this innocent clay ; 


Those eyes which unto me did seem 


Extinct is the animal flame, 


More comfortable than the day — 


And passion is vanished away. 


Those now by me, as they have been, 




Shall never more be held or seen ; 


This languishing head is at rest — 


But what I once enjoyed in them 


Its thinking and aching are o'er ; 


Shall seem hereafter as a dream. 


This quiet, immovable breast 




Is heaved by affiietion no more ; 


All earthly comforts vanish thus — 


This heart is no longer the seat 


So little hold of them have we 


Of trouble and torturing pain ; 


That we from them or they from us 


It ceases to flutter and beat — 


May in a moment ravished be ; 


It never shall flutter again. 


Yet we are neither just nor wise 




If present mercies we despise. 


The lids he so seldom could close, 


Or mind not how there may be made 


By sorrow forbidden to sleep — 


A thankful use of what we had. 


Sealed up in their mortal repose, 




Have strangely forgotten to weep — 


I therefore do not so bemoan, 


The fountains can yield no supplies — 


Though these beseeming tears I drop, 


These hollows from water are free ; 


The loss of my beloved one 


The tears are all wiped from these eyes, 


As they that are deprived of hope ; 


And evil they never shall see. 


But in expressing of my grief 


, 


My heart receiveth some relief. 


To mourn and to suffer is mine, 


And joyeth in the good I had, 


While bound in a prison I breathe, 


Although my sweets are bitter made. 


And still for deliverance pine. 




And press to the issues of death ; 


Lord, keep me faithful to the trust 


What now with my tears I bedew 


Which my dear spouse reposed in me ! 


Oh might I this moment become ! 


To him now dead preserve me just 


My spirit created anew, 


In all that should performed be ; 


My flesh be consigned to the tomb ! 


For though our being man and wife 


Chaeles Weslet. 


Extendeth only to this life. 




Yet neither life nor death should end 




The being of a faithful friend. 


£ox a toibcrrDer or tDiboro 


Those helps which I through him enjoyed, 




Let Thy continual aid supply — 


DEPRIVED OP A LOVING YOKEFELLOW. 






That, though some hopes in him are void. 


How near me came the hand of death, 


I always may on Thee rely ; 


When at my side he struck my dear, 


And whether I shall wed again. 


And took away the precious breath 


Or in a single state remain, 


Which quickened my beloved peer ! 


Unto Thine honor let it be. 


How helpless am I thereby made — 


And for a blessing unto me. - 


By day how grieved, by night how sad. 


George Withek. 



830 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 




Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill 


8[|)C2 axt ^U ©one. 


My perspective still as they pass ; 




Or else remove me hence unto that hill 


They are all gone into the world of light, 


Where I shall need no glass. 


And I alone sit lingering here ! 


Hbnrt Vaughan. 


Their very memory is fair and bright, 




And my sad thoughts doth clear ; 




It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast. 


QEacl) Sorrotoful ittourncr. 


Like stars upon some gloomy grove — 




Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest 


Each sorrowful mourner, be silent ! 


After the sun's remove. 


Pond mothers, give over your weeping ! 




Nor grieve for those pledges as perished — 


I see them walking in an air of glory, 


This dying is life's reparation. 


Whose light doth trample on my days — 




My days which are at best but dull and hoary, 


Now take him, earth, to thy keeping. 


Mere glimmering and decays. 


And give him soft rest in thy bosom ; 




I lend thee the frame of a Christian — 


holy hope ! and high humility — 


I entrust thee the generous fragments. 


High as the heavens above ! 




These are your walks, and you have showed them me 


Thou holily guard the deposit — 


To kindle my cold love. 


He will well, He will surely, require it. 




Who, forming it, made its creation 


Dear, beauteous death — the jewel of the just — 


The type of His image and likeness. 


Shining nowhere but in the dark ! 




What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust. 


But until the resolvable body 


Could man outlook that mark ! 


Thou reeallest, God, and reformest, 




What regions, unknown to the mortal. 


He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may 


Dost Thou will the pure soul to inhabit ? 


know. 




At first sight, if the bird be flown ; 


It shall rest upon Abraham's bosom. 


But what fair dell or grove he sings in now. 


As the spirit of blest Eleazar, 


That is to him unknown. 


Whom, afar in that Paradise, Dives 




Beholds from the flames of his torments. 


And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams 




Call to the soul when man doth sleep. 


We follow Thy saying. Redeemer, 


So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted 


Whereby, as on death Thou wast trampling. 


themes. 


The thief. Thy companion. Thou willedst 


And into glory peep. 


To tread in Thy footsteps and triumph. 


If a star were confined into a tomb. 


To the faithful the bright way is open. 


Her captive flames must needs burn there ; 


Henceforward, to Paradise leading. 


But when the hand that locked her up gives room. 


And to that blessed grove we have access 


She'll shine through all the sphere. 


Whereof man was bereaved by the serpent. 


Father of eternal life, and all 


Thou leader and guide of Thy people. 


Created glories under Thee ! 


Give command that the soul of Thy servant 


Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall 


May have holy repose in the country 


Into true liberty. 


Whence, exile and erring, he wandered. 



A LITTLE WHILE. 831 


We will honor the place of his resting 


Beyond the farewell and the greeting, 


With violets and garlands of flowers, 


Beyond this pulse's fever beating, 


And will sprinkle inscription and marble 


I shall be soon. 


With odors of costliest fragrance. 


Love, rest, and home ! 


AuRELius Pbudentius. (Latin.) 


Sweet hope ! 


Translation of John Mason NBAiE. 


Lord, tarry not, but come. 




Beyond the frost chain and the fever 


• 


I shall be soon ; 


% Cittle toljile. 


Beyond the rock waste and the river. 




Beyond the ever and the never. 


Beyond the smiling and the weeping 


I shall be soon. 


I shall be soon ; 


Love, rest, and home ! 


Beyond the waking and the sleeping, 


Sweet hope ! 


Beyond the sowing and the reaping, 


Lord, tarry not, but come. 


I shall be soon. 


HOBATITJS BONAR. 


Love, rest, and home ! 




Sweet hope ! 




Lord, tarry not, but come. 


®ur iTatlicr's ^avxz. 


Beyond the blooming and the fading 


I SAY to thee, do thou repeat 


I shall be soon ; 


To the first man thou mayest meet 


Beyond the shining and the shading, 


In lane, highway, or open street, — 


Beyond the hoping and the dreading. 




I shall be soon. 


That he, and we, and all men, move 


Love, rest, and home ! 


Under a canopy of love 


Sweet hope ! 


As broad as the blue sky above ; 


Lord, tarry not, but come. 




That doubt and trouble, fear and pain 


Beyond the rising and the setting 


And anguish, all are shadows vain ; 
That death itself shall not remain ; — 


I shall be soon ; 




Beyond the calming and the fretting, 


That weary deserts we may tread, 


Beyond remembering and forgetting, ' 


A dreary labyrinth may thread, 


I shall be soon. 


Through dark ways underground be led, — 


Love, rest, and home ! 




Sweet hope ! 


Yet, if we will our Guide obey. 


Lord, tarry not, but come. 


The dreariest path, the darkest way. 




Shall issue out in heavenly day ; 


Beyond the gathering and the strowing 
I shall be soon ; 


And we, on divers shores now cast, 


Beyond the ebbing and the flowing, 


Shall meet, our perilous voyage past. 


Beyond the coming and the going, 


All in our Father's home at last. 


I shall be soon. 


And ere thou leave him, say thou this 


Love, rest, and home ! 


Yet one word more : They only miss 


Sweet hope ! 


The winning of that final bliss, 


Lord, tarry not, but come. 






Who will not count it true that love. 


Beyond the parting and the meeting 


Blessing not cursing, rules above, 


I shall be soon ; 


And that in it we live and move. 



832 POEMS OF RELIGION. 


And one thing further make him know, — 


There everlasting spring abides. 


That to believe these things are so, 


And never- withering fiowers ; 


This fii'm faith never to forego, — 


Death, like a narrow sea, divides 


Despite of all which seems at strife 


This heavenly land from ours. 


"With blessing, or with curses rife, — 


Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood 


That this is blessing, this is life. 


Stand dressed in living green ; 


RiCHABD ChENEVLX TeENCH. 


So to the Jews old Canaan stood, 




While Jordan rolled between. 




But timorous mortals start and shrink 


©olr x\)t ®t)jerlasting t\%\\i oi\\\z Soints 


To cross this narrow sea, 


tlbODC. 


And linger shivering on the brink. 




And fear to launch away. 


Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell, 




With all your feeble light ; 


Oh ! could we make our doubts remove, 


Farewell, thou ever-changing moon, 


Those gloomy doubts that rise, 


Pale empress of the night. 


And see the Canaan that we love 




With unbeclouded eyes — 


And thou, refulgent orb of day. 




In brighter flames arrayed, 


Could we but climb where Moses stood, 


My soul, that springs beyond thy sphere, 


And view the landscape o'er, 


No more demands thine aid. 


Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold flood. 




Should fright us from the shore. 


Ye stars are but the shining dust 
Of my divine abode. 


Isaac Watts. 


The pavement of those heavenly courts 




Where I shall reign with God. 






€hc Ncu) IzxTXQahxa.; 


The Father of eternal light 


' ' 


Shall there His beams display. 


OR, THE soul's BREATHING AFTER THE HEAVENLY 


Nor shall one moment's darkness mix 


COUNTRY. 


With that unvaried day. 


" Since Christ's fair trutli needs no man's art, 




Talve this rude song in better part." 


No more the drops of piercing grief 




Shall swell into mine eyes. 


MOTHER dear, Jerusalem, 


Nor the meridian sun decline 


When shall I come to thee % 


Amidst those brighter skies. 


When shall my sorrows have an end — 




Thy joys when shall I see % 


There all the millions of His saints 


happy harbor of God's saints ! 


Shall in one song unite, 


sweet and pleasant soil ! 


And each the bliss of all shall view 


In thee no sorrows can be found — 


With infinite delight. 


No grief, no care, no toil. 


Philip Doddridge. 






In thee no sickness is at all. 




No hurt, nor any sore ; 


Qri)e ^eatjenlg (Eanaan. 


There is no death nor ugly night, 
But life for evermore. 


There is a land of pure delight. 


No dimming cloud o'ershadows thee, 


Where saints immortal reign; 


No cloud nor darksome night. 


Infinite day excludes the night. 


But every soul shines as the sun — 


And pleasures banish pain. 


For God himself gives light. 



TEE NEW JERUSALEM. 833 


There lust and lucre cannot dwell, 


But we that are in banishment, 


There envy bears no sway ; 


Continually do moan ; 


There is no hunger, thirst, nor heat, 


We sigh, we mourn, we sob, we weep — 


But pleasures every way. 


Perpetually we groan. 


Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! 




Would God I were in thee ! 


Our sweetness mixed is with gall. 


Oh ! that my sorrows had an end, 


Our pleasures are but pain. 


Thy joys that I might see ! 


Our joys not worth the looking on — 




Our sorrows aye remain. 


No pains, no pangs, no grieving grief, 


But there they live in such delight. 


JSTo woeful night is there ; 


Such pleasure and such play. 


No sigh, no sob, no cry is heard — 


That unto them a thousand years 


No well-away, no fear. 


Seems but as yesterday. 


Jerusalem the city is 




Of God our king alone ; 


my sweet home, Jerusalem ! 


The lamb of God, the light thereof, 


Thy joys when shall I see — 


Sits there upon His throne. 


The King sitting upon His throne. 




And thy felicity? 


God ! that I Jerusalem 


Thy vineyards, and thy orchards, 


With speed may go behold ! 


So wonderfully rare. 


For why ? the pleasures there abound 


Are furnished with all kinds of fruit. 


Which here cannot be told. 


Most beautifully fair. 


Thy turrets and thy pinnacles 




With carbuncles do shine — 


Thy gardens and thy goodly walks 


With jasper, pearl, and chrysolite, 


Continually are green ; 


Surpassing pure and fine. 


There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers 




As nowhere else are seen. 


Thy houses are of ivory. 


There cinnamon and sugar grow. 


Thy windows crystal clear, 


There nard and balm abound ; 


Thy streets are laid with beaten gold — 


No tongue can teU, no heart can think, 


There angels do appear. 


The pleasures there are found. 


Thy walls are made of precious stone. 




Thy bulwarks diamond square. 


There nectar and ambrosia spring — 


Thy gates are made of orient pearl — 


There music 's ever sweet ; 


God ! if I were there ! 


There many a fair and dainty thing 




Are trod down under feet. 


Within thy gates nothing can come 


Quite through the streets, with pleasant sound. 


That is not passing clean ; 


The flood of life doth flow; 


No spider's web, no dirt, nor dust, 


Upon the banks, on every side. 


No filth may there be seen. 


The trees of life do grow. 


Jehovah, Lord, now come away. 




And end my griefs and plaints — 


These trees each month yield ripened fruit — 


Take me to Thy Jerusalem, 


For evermore they spring ; 


And place me with Thy saints ! 


And all the nations of the world 




To thee their honors bring. 


Who there are crowned with glory great. 


Jerusalem, God's dwelling-place. 


And see God face to face. 


Full sore I long to see ; 


They triumph still, and aye rejoice — 


Oh ! that my sorrows had an end. 


Most happy is their case. 
55 


That I might dwell in thee ! 



834 POEMS OF RELIGION. 


There David stands, with harp in hand, 


A lamb unspotted, white and pure, 


As master of the choir ; 


To thee doth stand in lieu 


A thousand times that man were blest 


Of light — so great the glory is 


That might his music hear. 


Thine heavenly king to view. 


There Mary sings " Magnificat," 




With tunes surpassing sweet ; 


He is the King of kings, beset 


And all the virgins bear their part, 


In midst His servants' sight : 


Singing about her feet. 


And they. His happy household all. 




Do serve Him day and night. 


" Te Deum," doth St. Ambrose sing, 


There, there the choir of angels sing — 


St. Austin doth the like ; 


There the supernal sort 


Old Simeon and Zacharie 


Of citizens, which hence are rid 


Have not their songs to seek. 


From dangers deep, do sport. 


There Magdalene hath left her moan, 




And cheerfully doth sing, 


There be the prudent prophets all, 


With all blest saints whose harmony 


The apostles six and six. 


Through every street doth ring. 


The glorious martyrs in a row, 




And confessors betwixt. 


Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! 


There doth the crew of righteous men 


Thy joys fain would I see ; 


And matrons all consist — 


Come quickly, Lord, and end my grief. 


Young men and maids that here on earth 


And take me home to Thee ; 


Their pleasures did resist. 


Oh ! paint Thy name on my forehead, 




And take me hence away. 


The sheep and lambs, that hardly 'scaped 


That I may dwell with Thee in bliss, 


The snare of death and hell, 


And sing Thy praises aye. 


Triumph in joy eternally. 




Whereof no tongue can tell ; 


Jerusalem, the happy home — 


And though the glory of each one 


Jehovah's throne on high ! 


Doth differ in degree. 


sacred city, queen, and wife 


Yet is the joy of all alike 


Of Christ eternally ! 


And common, as we see. 


comely queen with glory clad. 




With honor and degree, 


There love and charity do reign, 


All fair thou art, exceeding bright — 


And Christ is all in all. 


No spot there is in thee ! 


Whom they most perfectly behold 




In joy celestial. 


I long to see Jerusalem, 


They love, they praise — they praise, they love ; 


The comfort of us all ; 


They " Holy, holy," cry ; 


For thou art fair and beautiful — 


They neither toil, nor faint, nor end, 


None ill can thee befall. 


But laud continually. 


In thee, Jerusalem, I say. 




No darkness dare appear — 


Oh ! happy thousand times were I, 


No night, no shade, no winter foul — 


If, after wretched days, 


No time doth alter there. 


I might with listening ears conceive 




Those heavenly songs of praise. 


No candle needs, no moon to shine, 


Which to the eternal king are sung 


No glittering star to light ; 


By happy wights above — 


For Christ, the king of righteousness, ' 


By saved souls and angels sweet, 


For ever shineth bright. 


Who love the God of love. 



THE FUTURE PEACE AND GLORY OF THE CHURCH. 



835 



Oh ! passing happy were my state, 

Might I be worthy found 
To wait upon my God and king, 

His praises there to sound ; 
And to enjoy my Christ above, 

His favor and His grace, 
According to His promise made. 

Which here I interlace : 

" Father dear," quoth he, " let them 

Which Thou hast put of old 
To me, be there where lo ! I am — 

Thy glory to behold ; 
Which I with Thee, before the world 

Was made in perfect wise, 
Have had — from whence the fountain great 

Of glory doth arise." 

Again : " If any man will serve 

Thee, let him follow me ; 
For where I am, he there, right sure, 

Then shall my servant be." 
And still : " If any man loves me. 

Him loves my Father dear. 
Whom I do love — to him myself 

In glory wiU appear." 

Lord, take away my misery, 

That then I may be bold 
With Thee, in Thy Jerusalem, 

Thy glory to behold ; 
And so in Zion see my king, 

My love, my Lord, my aU — • 
Where now as in a glass I see, 

There face to face I shall. 

Oh ! blessed are the pure in heart — 

Their sovereign they shall see ; 
ye most happy, heavenly wights. 

Which of God's household be ! 
Lord, with speed dissolve my bands. 

These gins and fetters strong ; 
For I have dwelt within the tents 

Of Kedar over long. 

Yet search me. Lord, and find me out ! 

Fetch me Thy fold unto. 
That all Thy angels may rejoice. 

While all Thy will I do. 



mother dear ! Jerusalem ! 

When shall I come to thee ? 
When shall my sorrows have an end. 

Thy joys when shall I see ? 

Yet once again I pray Thee, Lord, 

To quit me from all strife. 
That to Thy hill I may attain. 

And dwell there all my life — 
With cherubim and seraphim 

And holy souls of men. 

To sing Thy praise, God of hosts ! 

Forever and amen ! 

Anonymous. 



^[\t iTxtUxre |)eacc onb ©iorg of tlje 
CII)tircl). 

Hear what God the Lord hath spoken : 

" my people, faint and few. 
Comfortless, afflicted, broken. 

Fair abodes I build for you ; 
Thorns of heartfelt tribulation 

Shall no more perplex your ways ; 
You shall name your walls salvation. 

And your gates shall all be praise. 

" There, like streams that feed the garden. 

Pleasures without end shall flow ; 
For the Lord, your faith rewarding, 

All His bounty shall bestow. 
Still in undisturbed possession 

Peace and righteousness shall reign ; 
Never shall you feel oppression. 

Hear the voice of war again. 

" Ye no more your suns descending. 

Waning moons no more shall see ; 
But, your griefs for ever ending. 

Find eternal noon in me. 
God shall rise, and, shining o'er you. 

Change to day the gloom of night ; 
He, the Lord, shall be your glory, 

God your everlasting light." 

William Cowpee. 



836 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



|)eoce. 

My soul, there is a country 

Afar beyond the stars, 
Where stands a winged sentry, 

All skilful in the wars. 

There, above noise and danger, 
Sweet peace sits crowned with smiles, 

And One born in a manger 
Commands the beauteous files. 

He is thy gracious friend, 

And ( my soul awake ! ) 
Did in pure love descend, 

To die here for thy sake. 

If thou canst get but thither, 
There grows the flower of peace — 

The rose that cannot wither — 
Thy fortress, and thy ease. 

Leave, then, thy foolish ranges ; 

For none can thee secure. 
But One who never changes — 

Thy God, thy life, thy cure. 

Henry Vattghan. 



BEAUTEOUS God ! uneircumscribed treasure 
Of an eternal pleasure ! 

Thy throne is seated far 
Above the highest star. 
Where Thou preparest a glorious place, 
Within the brightness of Thy face, 
For every spirit 
To inherit 
That builds his hopes upon Thy merit, 
And loves Thee with a holy charity. 
What ravished heart, seraphic tongue or eyes 
Clear as the morning rise, 

Can speak, or think, or see 
That bright eternity, 
Where the great king's transparent throne 
Is of an entire Jasper stone ? 
There the eye 
0' the chrysolite, 
And a sky 



Of diamonds, rubies, chrysoprase — 
And above all, Thy holy face ■ — 
Makes an eternal charity. 
When Thou Thy jewels up dost bind, that day 
Remember us, we pray — 

That where the beryl lies. 
And the crystal 'bove the skies, 
There Thou mayest appoint us place 
Within the brightness of Thy face — 
And our soul 
In the scroll 
Of life and blissfulness enroll, 
That we may praise Thee to eternity. AUelujah ! 

Jebemt Tatlor. 



Amazing, beauteous change I 

A world created new ! 
My thoughts with transport range, 
The lovely scene to view ; 
In all I trace. 
Saviour divine. 
The work is Thine — 
Be Thine the praise ! 

See crystal fountains play 

Amidst the burning sands ; 
The river's winding way 
Shines through the thirsty lands ; 
New grass is seen. 
And o'er the meads 
Its carpet spreads 
Of living green. 

Where pointed brambles grew, 
Entwined with horrid thorn. 
Gay flowers, for ever new. 
The painted fields adorn — 
The blushing rose 
And lily there, 
In union fair 
Their sweets disclose. 

Where the bleak moimtain stood 

All bare and disarrayed. 
See the wide-branching wood 

Diffuse its grateful shade ; 



PRAISE TO GOD. 



837 



Tall cedars nod, 
And oaks and pines, 
And elms and vines 

Confess the God. 

The tyrants of the plain 

Their savage chase give o'er — 
No more they rend the slain, 
And thirst for blood no more ; 
But infant hands 
Fierce tigers stroke, 
And Uons yoke 
In flowery bands. 

Oh when, Almighty Lord, 

Shall these glad scenes arise. 
To verify Thy word. 
And bless our wondering eyes ! 
That earth may raise, 
"With all its tongues. 
United songs 
Of ardent praise. 



Philip Doddkidsk. 



aU toell. 

No seas again shall sever, 

No desert intervene ; 
No deep, sad-flowing river 

Shall roU its tide between. 

No bleak clifis, upward towering, 
Shall bound our eager sight ; 

No tempest, darkly lowering, 
Shall wrap us in its night. 

Love, and unsevered union 

Of soul with those we love. 
Nearness and glad communion, 

Shall be our joy above. 

No dread of wasting sickness, 

No thought of ache or pain. 
No fretting hours of weakness, 

Shall mar our peace again. 

No death, our homes o'ershading. 
Shall e'er our harps unstring; 

For aU is life unfading 
In presence of our king. 

HOBATIUS BONAH. 



IJraise to (Bob. 

Praise to God, immortal praise, 
For the love that crowns our days — 
Bounteous source of every joy. 
Let Thy praise our tongues employ ! 

For the blessings of the field, 
For the stores the gardens yield. 
For the vine's exalted juice. 
For the generous olive's use ; 

Flocks that whiten all the plain, 
YeUow sheaves of ripened grain. 
Clouds that drop their fattening dews. 
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse — 

All that Spring, with bounteous hand. 
Scatters o'er the smiling land ; 
All that liberal Autumn pours 
From her rich o'erflowing stores : 

These to Thee, my God, we owe — 
Source whence all our blessings flow ! 
And for these my soul shall raise 
Grateful vows and solemn praise. 

Yet should rising whirlwinds tear 
From its stem the ripening ear — 
Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot 
Drop her green untimely fruit — 

Should the vine put forth no more, 
Nor the olive yield her store — 
Though the sickening flocks should fall. 
And the herds desert the stall — 

Should Thine altered hand restrain 
The early and the latter rain. 
Blast each opening bud of joy, 
And the rising year destroy ; 

Yet to Thee my soul should raise 
Grateful vows and solemn praise. 
And, when every blessing 's flown, 
Love Thee — for Thyself alone. 

ASNA L^TITIA BAEBArxD. 



838 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



t)cni, QTreator! 

Creator Spirit, by whose aid 
The world's foundations first were laid, 
Come, visit every pious mind ; 
Come, pour thy joys on human kind ; 
Prom sin and sorrow set us free, 
And make Thy temples worthy Thee ! 

source of uncreated light. 
The Father's promised Paraclete ! 
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire. 
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire ; 
Come, and Thy sacred unction bring, 
To sanctify us while we sing ! 

Plenteous of grace, descend from high, 

Rich in Thy sevenfold energy ! 

Thou strength of His almighty hand 

Whose power does heaven and earth command ! 

Proceeding Spirit, our defence, 

Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense, 

And crown'st thy gifts with eloquence ! 

Refine and purge our earthly parts ; 
But oh, inflame and fire our hearts ; 
Our frailties help, our vice control — 
Submit the senses to the soul ; 
And when rebellious they are grown. 
Then lay Thy hand, and hold them down. 

Chase from our minds the infernal foe, 
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow ; 
And, lest our feet should step astray, 
Protect and guide us in the way. 

Make us eternal truths receive, 
And practise all that we believe ; 
Give us Thyself, that we may see 
The Father, and the Son, by Thee. 

Immortal honor, endless fame, 
Attend the almighty Father's name ! 
The Saviour Son be glorified. 
Who for lost man's redemption died ! 
And equal adoration be, ' 

Eternal Paraclete, to Thee ! 



Paraphrase of John Drtden. 



St. Ambrose. (Latin.) 



The Lord is my shepherd, no want shall I 
know ; 
I feed in green pastures, safe-folded I rest ; 
He leadeth my soul where the still waters flow, 
Restores me when wandering, redeems when op- 
pressed. 

Through the valley and shadow of death though I 
stray, 

Since Thou art my guardian no evU I fear ; 
Thy rod shall defend me, Thy staff be my stay ; 

No harm can befall with my Comforter near. 

In the midst of afiliction my table is spread ; 

With blessings unmeasured my cup runneth 
o'er ; 
With perfume and oil Thou anointest my head ; 

Oh ! what shall I ask of Thy Providence more ? 

Let goodness and mercy, my bountiful God ! 

Still follow my steps till I meet Thee above : 
I seek, by the path which my forefathers trod 

Through the land of their sojourn, Thy kingdom 
of love. Jambs Montgomery. 



Sonnet. 

The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed, 
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray ; 
My unassisted heart is barren clay, 
That of its native self can nothing feed. 
Of good and pious works Thou art the seed. 
That quickens only where thou say'st it may. 
Unless Thou show to us Thine own true way. 
No man can find it ; Father ! thou must lead. 
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my 

mind 
By which such virtue may in me be bred 
That in Thy holy footsteps I may tread ; 
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind, 
That I may have the power to sing of Thee, 
And sound Thy praises everlastingly. 

Michel Angblo. (Italian.) 
Translation of Samuel Wordsworth. 



PSALM TEIRTEEN. 839 


|)soitn ®l)irtcen. 


|3salm ©iglitecn. 


Lord, how long, how long wilt Thou 


PAKT FIRST. 


Quite forget, and quite neglect me ? 


God, my strength and fortitude, of force I must 


How long, with a frowning brow. 


love Thee ! 


Wilfc Thou from Thy sight reject me ? 


Thou art my castle and defence in my necessity — 




My God, my rock in whom I trust, the worker of 


How long shall I seek a way 


my wealth. 


Forth this maze of thoughts perplexed, 


My refuge, buckler, and my shield, the horn of all 


Where my grieved mind, night and day, 


my health. 


Is with thinking tired and vexed ? 




How long shall my scornful foe, 


When I sing laud unto the Lord most worthy to 


On my fall his greatness placing, 


be served. 


Build upon my overthrow, 


Then from my foes I am right siire that I shall be 


And be graced by my disgracing ? 


preserved. 




The pangs of death did compass me, and bound 


Hear, Lord and God, my cries ! 


me everywhere ; 


Mark my foes' unjust abusing ; 


The flowing waves of wickedness did put me in 


And illuminate mine eyes. 


great fear. 


Heavenly beams in them infusing — 




Lest my woes, too great to bear. 


The sly and subtle snares of hell were round about 


And too infinite to number, 


me set ; 


Rock me soon, 'twixt hope and fear. 


And for ray death there was prepared a deadly 


Into death's eternal slumber — 


trapping net. 




I, thus beset with pain and grief, did pray to God 


Lest my foes their boasting make : 


for grace ; 
And He forthwith did hear my plaint out of His 


Spite of right, on him we trample ; 
And a pride in mischief take. 


holy place. 


Hastened by my sad example. 






Such is His power that in His wrath He made the 




earth to quake — 


As for me, I'll ride secure 


Yea, the foundation of the mount of Basan for to 


At Thy mercy's sacred anchor ; 


shake. 


And, undaunted, will endure 


And from His nostrils came a smoke, when kindled 


Fiercest storms of wrong and rancor. 


was His ire ; 




And from His mouth came kindled coals of hot 


These black clouds will overblow — 


consuming fire. 


Sunshine shall have his returning ; 




And my grief-dulled heart, I know, 


The Lord descended from above, and bowed the 


Into mirth shall change his mourning. 


heavens high ; 


Therefore I'll rejoice, and sing 


And underneath His feet He cast the darkness of 


Hymns to God, in sacred measure. 


the sky. 


Who to happy pass will bring 


On chenibs and on cherubim full royally He rode ; 


My just hopes, at His good pleasure. 


And on the wings of all the winds came flying all 


Francis Davison. 


abroad. 




Thomas Sternhold. 



840 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



|)0altn Nineteen. 

The heavens declare Thy glory, Lord ! 

In every star Thy wisdom shines ; 
But when our eyes behold Thy word, 

We read Thy name in fairer lines. 

The rolling sun, the changing light, 
And nights and days Thy power confess ; 

But the blest volume Thou hast writ 
Reveals Thy justice and Thy grace. 

Sun, moon, and stars convey Thy praise 
Round the whole earth, and never stand ; 

So, when Thy truth begun its race 
It touched and glanced on every land. 

Nor shall Thy spreading gospel rest 

Till through the world Thy truth has run ; 

Till Christ has all the nations blest 
That see the light or feel the sun. 

Great sun of righteousness, arise ! 

Bless the dark world with heavenly light ; 
Thy gospel makes the simple wise — 

Thy laws are pure, Thy judgments right. 

Thy noblest wonders here we view. 
In souls renewed, and sins forgiven ; 

Lord, cleanse my sins, my soul renew. 
And make Thy word my guide to heaven ! 

Isaac Watts. 



IPaalm StTOentg-tljree. 

God, who the universe doth hold 
In His fold, 
Is my shepherd, kind and heedful — 
Is my shepherd, and doth keep 
Me, His sheep. 
Still supplied with all things needful. 

He feeds me in His fields, which been 
Fresh and green, 
Mottled with spring's flowery paiflting — 
Through which creep, with murmuring crooks, 
Crystal brooks, 
To refresh my spirit's fainting. 



When my soul from heaven's way 
Went astray, 
"With earth's vanities seduced, 
For His name's sake, kindly, He 
Wandering me 
To His holy fold reduced. 

Yea, though I stray through death's vale. 
Where His pale 
Shades did on each side enfold me, 
Dreadless, having Thee for guide, 
Should I bide ; 
For Thy rod and stafE uphold me. 

Thou my board with messes large 
Dost surcharge ; 
My bowls full of wine Thou pourest ; 
And before mine enemies' 
Envious eyes 
Balm upon my head Thou showerest. 

Neither dures Thy bounteous grace 
For a space ; 
But it knows no bound nor measure ; 
So my days, to my life's end, 
I shall spend 
In Thy courts with heavenly pleasure. 

Fbancis Davison. 



|)salm @;roent2-tl)re^. 

Lo, my Shepherd's hand divine ! 
Want shall never more be mine. 
In a pasture fair and large 
He shall feed His happy charge, 
And my couch with tenderest care 
'Midst the springing grass prepare. 

When I faint with summer's heat, 
He shall lead my weary feet 
To the streams that, still and slow. 
Through the verdant meadows flow. 
He my soul anew shall frame; 
And, His mercy to proclaim. 
When through devious paths I stray, 
Teach my steps the better way. 



PSALM FORTY-SIX. 841 


Though the dreary vale I tread 


Sion enjoys her monarch's love. 


By the shades of death o'erspread ; 


Secure against a threat'ning hour ; 


There I walk from terror free, 


Nor can her firm foundations move. 


While my every wish I see 


Built on His truth, and armed with power. 


By Thy rod and stafE supplied — 


Isaac Watts. 


This my guard, and that my guide. 




"While my foes are gazing on. 


|)salm iTorta-si^. 


Thou Thy favoring care hast shown ; 




Thou my plenteous board hast spread ; 


A SAFE stronghold our God is still. 


Thou with oil refreshed ray head ; 


A trusty shield and weapon ; 


Pilled by Thee, my cup o'erflows ; 


He'll help us clear from all the ill 


For Thy love no limit knows. 


That hath us now o'ertaken. 


Constant, to my latest end, 


The ancient prince of hell 


This my footsteps shall attend. 


Hath risen with purpose fell ; 


And shall bid Thy hallowed dome 


Strong mail of craft and power 


Yield me an eternal home. 


He weareth in this hour — 


Jaues Mebrice. 


On earth is not his fellow. 


' 


By force of arms we nothing can — 




Pull soon were we down-ridden ; 




But for lis fights the proper man, 


JJsalm iTorta-sijE. 


Whom God himself hath bidden. 


God is the refuge of His saints. 

When storms of sharp disti-ess invade ; 


Ask ye. Who is this same ? 
Christ Jesus is His name, 
The Lord Zebaoth's son — 


Ere we can offer our complaints, 
Behold Him present with His aid. 


He and no other one 
Shall conquer in the battle. 


Let mountains from their seats be hurled 


And were this world all devils o'er, 


Down to the deep, and buried there — 


And watching to devour us, 


Convulsions shake the solid world ; 


We lay it not to heart so sore — 


Our faith shall never yield to fear. 


Not they can overpower us. 




And let the prince of ill 




Look grim as e'er he will, 


Loud may the troubled ocean roar ; 


He harms us not a whit ; 


In sacred peace our souls abide, 


Por why ? His doom is writ — 


While every nation, every sliore, 


A word shall quickly slay him. 


Trembles and dreads the swelling tide. 






God's word, for all their craft and force, 




One moment will not linger ; 


There is a stream whose gentle flow 


But, spite of hell, shall have its course — 

'Tis written by His finger. 
And though they take our life. 


Supplies the city of our God — 
Life, love, and joy still gliding through, 


And watering our divine abode ; 




Goods, honor, children, wife. 




Yet is their profit small ; 


That sacred stream Thine holy word. 


These things shall vanish all — 


That all our raging fear controls ; 


The city of God remaineth. 


Sweet peace Thy promises afford. 


Maktin Luthek. (German.) 


And give new strength to fainting souls. 


Translation of Thomas Carlyle. 



% 



842 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



SECOND PAKT. 

'Tis by Thy strength the mountains stand, 

God of eternal power ! 
The sea grows calm at Thy command, 

And tempests cease to roar. 

Thy morning light and evening shade 

Successive comforts bring ; 
Thy plenteous fruits make harvest glad — 

Thy flowers adorn the spring. 

Seasons and times, and moons and hours, 
Heaven, earth, and air, are Thine ; 

When clouds distU in fruitful showers. 
The author is divine. 

Those wandering cisterns in the sky. 

Borne by the winds around, 
"With watery treasures well supply 

The furrows of the ground. 

The thirsty ridges drink their fill, 

And ranks of corn appear ; 
Thy ways abound with blessings still — 

Thy goodness crowns the year. 

Isaac Watts. 



With one consent let all the earth 
To God their cheerful voices raise — 

Glad homage pay with awful mirth. 
And sing before Him songs of praise — 

Convinced that He is God alone. 
From whom both we and all proceed — 

We whom He chooses for His own. 

The flock which He vouchsafes to feed. 

Oh enter then His temple gate, ' 
Thence to his courts devoutly press ; 

And still your grateful hymns repeat, 
And still His name with praises bless. 



For He 's the Lord supremely good, 

His mercy is forever sure ; 
His truth, which all times firmly stood, 

To endless ages shall endure. 

Tate and Bbadt. 



How are Thy servants blest, Lord ! 

How sure is their defence ! 
Eternal wisdom is their guide, 

Their help- omnipotence. 

In foreign realms, and lands remote, 

Supported by Thy care. 
Through burning climes I passed unhurt, 

And breathed in tainted air. 

Thy mercy sweetened every soil, 

Made every region please ; 
The hoary Alpine hills it warmed. 

And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas. 

Think, my soul, devoutly think, 

How with affrighted eyes 
Thou saw'st the wide-extended deep 

In all its horrors rise ! 

Confusion dwelt in every face, 

And fear in every heart. 
When waves on -^aves, and gulfs in gulfs, 

O'ercame the pilot's art. 

Yet then from all my griefs, Lord, 

Thy mercy set me free ; 
Whilst in the confidence of prayer 

My soul took hold on Thee. 

For though in dreadful whirls we hung, 

High on the broken wave ; 
I knew Thou wert not slow to hear, 

Nor impotent to save. 

The storm was laid, the winds retired, 

Obedient to Thy will ; 
The sea, that roared at Thy command, 

At Thy command was still. 



EY3IN. 843 


In midst of dangers, fears, and deaths. 


When worn with sickness oft hast Thou 


Thy goodness I'll adore — 


With health renewed my face. 


And praise Thee for Thy mercies past, 


And when in sins and sorrows sunk 


And humbly hope for more. 


Eevived my soul with grace. 


My life, if Thou preserv'st my life, 


Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss 


Thy sacrifice shall be ; 


Has made my cup run o'er. 


And death, if death must be my doom. 


And in a kind and faithful friend 


Shall join my soul to Thee. 


Has doubled all my store. 


Joseph Addison. 






Ten thousand thousand precious gifts 




My daily thanks employ, 


i^amn. 


Nor is the least a cheerful heart. 


That tastes those gifts with joy. 


When all Thy mercies, my God, 




My rising soul surveys, 


Through every period of my life 


Transported with the view, I'm lost 


Thy goodness I'll pursue, 


In wonder, love, and praise. 


And after death in distant worlds 




The glorious theme renew. 


how shall words with equal warmth 




The gratitude declare. 


When nature fails, and day and night 


That glows within my ravished heart ? — 


Divide Thy works no more, 


But Thou canst read it there ! 


My ever-grateful heart, Lord, 




Thy mercy shall adore. 


Thy providence my life sustained, 




And all my wants redrest. 


Through all eternity to Thee 


When in the silent womb I lay, 


A joyful song I'll raise ; 


And hung upon the breast. 


For oh ! eternity 's too short 




To utter all Thy praise. 


To all my weak complaints and cries 


Joseph Addisow. 


Thy mercy lent an ear, 




Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt 




To form themselves in prayer. 




Unnumbered comforts to my soul 


|)salm ODne ^unbrcb onb Qcocntecn. 


Thy tender care bestowed, 




Before my infant heart conceived 


From all that dwell below the skies 


From whom those comforts flowed. 


Let the Creator's praise arise ; 




Let the Redeemer's name be sung 


When in the slippery paths of youth 


Through every land, by every tongue. 


With heedless steps I ran, 




Thine arm unseen conveyed me safe, 


Eternal are Thy mercies. Lord — 


And led me up to man. 


Eternal truth attends Thy word ; 




Thy praise shall sound from shore to shore, 


Through hidden dangers, toils, and deaths. 


Till suns shall rise and set no more. 


It gently cleared my way. 
And through the pleasing snares of vice, 


Isaac Watts. 


More to be feared than they. 





844 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Qi;i)e Creator onb (Ereaturcs. 

God is a name my soul adores — 
The almighty Three, the eternal One ! 

Nature and grace, with all their powers, 
Confess the infinite Unknown. 

From Thy great self Thy being springs, 

Thou art Thy own original. 
Made up of uncreated things ; 

And seLf-sufficienee bears them all. 

Thy voice produced the seas and spheres. 
Bid the waves roar, and planets shine ; 

But nothing like Thyself appears 
Through all these spacious works of Thine. 

Still restless nature dies and grows, 
From change to change the creatures run ; 

Thy being no succession knows. 
And all Thy vast designs are one, 

A glance of Thine runs through the globes, 
Rules the bright worlds, and moves their frame ; 

Broad sheets of light compose Thy robes ; 
Thy guards are formed of living flame. 

Thrones and dominions round Thee fall. 
And worship in submissive forms ; 

Thy presence shakes this lower ball, 
This little dwelling-place of worms. 

How shall affrighted mortals dare 
To sing Thy glory or Thy grace — 

Beneath Thy feet we lie so far. 
And see but shadows of Thy face 1 

Who can behold the blazing light? 

Who can approach consuming flame ? 
None but Thy wisdom knows Thy might — 

None but Thy word can speak Thy name. 

Isaac Watts. 



Cigllt 01}ining out of HDarkncss. 

God moves in a mysterious way 

His wonders to perform ; 
He plants His footsteps in the sea. 

And rides upon the storm. 



Deep in unfathomable mines 

Of never-failing skill. 
He treasures up His bright designs. 

And works His sovereign will. 

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take ! 

The clouds ye so much dread 
Are big with mercy, and shall break 

In blessings on your head. 

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense. 
But trust Him for His grace : 

Behind a frowning providence 
He hides a smiling face. 

His purposes will ripen fast, 

Unfolding every hour ; 
The bud may have a bitter taste. 

But sweet will be the flower. 

Blind unbelief is sure to err. 

And scan His work in vain : 
God is His own interpreter. 

And He wiU make it plain. 

William Cowper. 



ScorcJ) after ®ob. 

I SOUGHT Thee round about, Thou my God ! 

In thine abode. 
I said unto the earth : " Speak ! art thou he? " 

She answered me : 
" I am not." I enquired of creatures all. 

In general, 
Contained therein — they with one voice pro- 
claim 
That none amongst them challenged such a 
name. 

I asked the seas and all the deeps below. 

My God to know ; 
I asked the reptiles, and whatever is 

In the abyss — 
Even from the shrimp to the leviathan 

Enquiry ran ; 
But in those deserts which no line can sound, 
The God I sought for was not to be found. 



SEARCH AFTER GOD. 845 


I asked the air, if that were he ; but lo, 


I asked myself, what this great God might be 


It told me no. 


That fashioned me ; 


I from the towering eagle to the wren 


I answered : The all-potent, solely immense. 


Demanded then 


Surpassing sense — 


If any feathered fowl 'mongst them were such ; 


Unspeakable, inscrutable, eternal, 


But they all, much 


Lord over all ; 


Offended with my question, in full choir 


The only terrible, strong, just, and true. 


Answered : " To find thy God thou must look 


Who hath no end, and no beginning knew. 


higher." 






He is the well of life, for He doth give 


I asked the heavens, sun, moon, and stars — but they 


To all that live 


Said : " We obey 


Both breath and being. He is the creator 


The God thou seekest." I asked, what eye or ear 


Both of the water. 


Could see or hear — 


Earth, air, and fire. Of all things that subsist 


"What in the world I might descry or know. 


He hath the list — 


Above, below ; 


Of all the heavenly host, or what earth claims. 


With an unanimous voice, all these things said : 


He keeps the scroll, and calls them by their names. 


" We are not God, but we by Him were made." 




' 


And now, my God, by Thine illumining grace, 


I asked the world's great universal mass, 


Thy glorious face 


If that God was ; 


(So far forth as it may discovered be) 


Which with a mighty and strong voice replied, 


Methinks I see ; 


As stupefied : 


And though invisible and infinite, 


" I am not He, man ! for know that I 


To human sight 


By Him on high 


Thou, in Thy mercy, justice, truth, appearest — 


Was fashioned first of nothing ; thus instated 


In which to our weak sense Thou comest nearest. 


And swayed by Him, by whom I was created." 






Oh make us apt to seek, and quick to find. 


I sought the court; but smooth-tongued flattery 


Thou God, most kind ! 


there 


Give us love, hope, and faith in Thee to trust, 


Deceived each ear ; 


Thou God, most just ! 


In the thronged city there was selling, buying, 


Remit all our offences, we entreat — 


Swearing and lying ; 


Most good, most great ! 


I' the country, craft in simpleness arrayed — 


Grant that our willing, though unworthy quest 


And then I said : 


May, through Thy grace, admit us 'mongst the 


" Vain is my search, although my pains be 


blest. Thomas HErwooD. 


great — 




Where my God is, there can be no deceit." 




A scrutiny within myself I, then. 


l^eaxex, tna ®o&, to 2Cl)ce. 


Even thus, began : 




" man, what art thou ? " — Wliat more could I say 


Nearer, my God, to Thee — 


Than dust and clay — 


Nearer to Thee ! 


Frail, mortal, fading, a mere puff, a blast. 


E'en though it be a cross 


That cannot last — 


That raiseth me ; 


Enthroned to-day, to-morrow in an urn, 


Still all my song shall be. 


Formed from that earth to which I must re- 


Nearer, my God, to Thee — 


turn! 


Nearer to Thee ! 



846 P0E3IS OF RELIGION. 


Though like a wanderer, 


Return, holy Dove, return ! 


The sun gone down, 


Sweet messenger of rest : 


Darkness comes over me, 


I hate the sins that made Thee mourn. 


My rest a stone ; 


And drove Thee from my breast. 


Yet in my dreams I'd be 




Nearer, my God, to Thee — 


The dearest idol I have known. 


Nearer to Thee ! 


Whate'er that idol be, 




Help me to tear it from Thy throne. 


There let the way appear 


And worship only Thee. 


Steps unto heaven ; 
All that thou sendest me 




William Cowpeb. 


In mercy given ; 




Angels to beckon me 




Nearer, my God, to Thee — 


®n %X^OX\)ZX'q SoiTOtD. 


Nearer to Thee ! 






Can I see another's woe, 


Then with my waking thoughts. 


And not be in sorrow too ? 


Bright with thy praise, 


Can 1 see another's grief, 


Out of my stony griefs 


And not seek for kind relief ? 


Bethel I'll raise ; 




So by my woes to be, 


Can I see a falling tear, 


Nearer, my God, to Thee — 


And not see my sorrow's share ? 


Nearer to Thee ! 


Can a father see his child 




Weep, nor be with sorrow filled ? 


Or if, on joyful wing, 


i. ' 


Cleaving the sky, 


Can a mother sit and hear 


Sun, moon, and stars forgot, 


An infant groan, an infant fear? 


Upward I fly — 


No ! no ! never can it be — 


Still all my song shall be. 


Never, never can it be ! 


Nearer, my God, to Thee — 




Nearer to Thee ! 


And can He who smiles on all. 


Sarah Flowtsk Adams. 






Hear the wren with sorrows small, 




Hear the small bird's grief and care. 


toalking mt\) ®ob. 


Hear the woes that infants bear, — 




Oh for a closer walk with God, 


And not sit beside the nest. 


A calm and heavenly frame, 
A light to shine upon the road 


Pouring pity in their breast ? 
And not sit the cradle near. 


That leads me to the Lamb ! 


Weeping tear on infant's tear ? 


Where is the blessedness I knew 


And not sit both night and day. 


When first I saw the Lord ? 


Wiping all our tears away ? 


Where is the soul-refreshing view 


Oh, no ! never can it be — 


Of Jesus and His word ? 


Never, never can it be ! 


What peaceful hours I once enjoyed — 


He doth give His joy to all ; 


How sweet their memory still ! 


He becomes an infant small, 


But they have left an aching void 


He becomes a man of woe. 


The world can never fill. 


He doth feel the sorrow too. 



THE RESIGNATION. 



847 



Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, 
And thy Maker is not nigh ; 
Think not thou canst weep a tear, 
And thy Maker is not near. 

Oh ! He gives to us His joy, 
That our griefs He may destroy. 
Till our grief is fled and gone 
He doth sit by us and moan. 

WrLLiAM Blake. 



(&ob is £o»c. 

All I f ael, and hear, and see, 
God of love, is full of Thee. 

Earth, with her ten thousand flowers, 

Air, with all its beams and showers. 

Ocean's infinite expanse. 

Heaven's resplendent countenance — 

AU around, and all above. 

Hath this record : God is love. 

Sounds among the vales and hiUs, 
In the woods, and by the rills. 
Of the breeze, and of the bird. 
By the gentle murmur stirred — 
All these songs, beneath, above, - 
Have one burden : God is love. 

All the hopes and fears that start 
From the fountain of the heart. 
All the quiet bliss that lies, 
All our human sympathies — 
These are voices from above, 
Sweetly whispering : God is love. 

Anontmous. 



9ri)e Hesignation. 

God ! whose thunder shakes the sky. 
Whose eye this atom-globe surveys, 

To Thee, my only rock, I fly, — 
Thy mercy in Thy Justice praise. 

The mystic mazes of Thy will. 
The shadows of celestial night. 

Are past the power of human skill ; 
But what the Eternal acts is right. 



teach me, in the trying hour, 
When anguish swells the dewy tear, 

To still ray sorrows, own Thy power, 
Thy goodness love, Thy justice fear. 

If in this bosom aught but Thee, 
Encroaching, sought a boundless sway. 

Omniscience could the danger see. 
And mercy look the cause away. 

Then why, my soul, dost thou complain — 
Why drooping seek the dark recess ? 

Shake off the melancholy chain ; 
For God created all to bless. 

But ah ! my breast is human still ; 

The rising sigh, the falling tear, 
My languid vitals' feeble rill. 

The sickness of my soul declare. 

But yet, with fortitude resigned, 
I'll thank the inflictor of the blow — 

Forbid the sigh, compose my mind. 
Nor let the gush of misery flow. 

The gloomy mantle of the night. 
Which on my sinking spirit steals, 

WiU vanish at the morning light. 
Which God, my east, my sun, reveals. 

Thomas Chattekton. 



€l)ortis. 

King of kings ! and Lord of lords ! 
Thus we move, our sad steps timing 
To our cymbals' feeblest chiming, 
Where Thy house its rest accords. 
Chased and wounded birds are we, 
Through the dark air fled to Thee — 
To the shadow of Thy wings. 
Lord of lords ! and King of kings ! 

Behold, Lord ! the heathen tread 
The branches of Thy fruitful vine, 

That its luxurious tendrils spread 
O'er all the hills of Palestine. 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



And now the wild boar comes to waste 
Even us — the greenest boughs and last, 
That, drinking of Thy choicest dew, 
On Zion's hill in beauty grew. 

No ! by the marvels of Thine hand, 
Thou wilt save Thy chosen land ! 
By all Thine ancient mercies shown. 
By all our fathers' foes o'erthrown ; 
By the Egyptian's car-borne host, 
Scattered on the Red Sea coast — 
By that wide and bloodless slaughter 
Underneath the drowning water. 

Like us, in utter helplessness. 
In their last and worst distress — 
On the sand and sea- weed lying — 
Israel poured her doleful sighing ; 
While before the deep sea flowed. 
And behind fierce Egypt rode — 
To their fathers' God they prayed. 
To the Lord of hosts for aid. 

On the margin of the flood 

With lifted rod the prophet stood ; 

And the summoned east wind blew, 

And aside it sternly threw 

The gathered waves that took their stand 

Like crystal rocks, on either hand. 

Or walls of sea-green marble piled 

Round some irregular city wild. 

Then the light of morning lay 
On the wonder-paved way, 
Where the treasures of the deep 
In their caves of coral sleep. 
The profound abysses, where 
Was never sound from upper air. 
Rang with Israel's chanted words : 
King of kings ! and Lord of lords ! 

Then with bow and banner glancing, • 

On exulting Egypt came ; 
With her chosen horsemen prancing, 

And her cars on wheels of flame. 
In a rich and boastful ring. 
All around her furious king. ' 

But the Lord from out His cloud. 

The Lord looked down upon the proud ; 



And the host drave heavily 
Down the deep bosom of the sea. 

With a quick and sudden swell 

Prone the liquid ramparts fell ; 

Over horse, and over car, 

Over every man of war, 

Over Pharaoh's crown of gold, 

The loud thundering billows rolled. 

As the level waters spread, 

Down they sank — they sank like lead — 

Down sank without a cry or groan. 

And the morning sun, that shone 

On myriads of bright-armed men, 

Its meridian radiance then 

Cast on a wide sea, heaving, as of yore. 

Against a silent, solitary shore. 

Henkt Hakt Milman. 



3:1)6 llniccrsal IJragcr. 

DEO OPT. MAX. 

Father of all ! in every age, 

In eveiy clime adored — 
By saint, by savage, and by sage — 

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! 

Thou great first cause, least understood, 

Who all my sense confined 
To know but this : that Thou art good. 

And that myself am blind ; 

Yet gave me, in this dark estate. 

To see the good from ill ; 
And, binding nature fast in fate, 

Left free the human will. 

What conscience dictates to be done, 

Or warns me not to do, 
This teach me more than hell to shun. 

That more than heaven pursue. 

What blessings Thy free bounty gives 

Let me not cast away. 
For God is paid when man receives : 

To enjoy is to obey. 



DIVINE EJACULATION. 849 


Yet not to earth's contracted span 


Great God ! Thy garden is defaced. 


Thy goodness let me bound, 


The weeds thrive there. Thy flowers decay: 


Or think Thee Lord alone of man, 


Oh call to mind Thy promise past — 


When thousand worlds are round. 


. Restore Thou them, cut these away ; 




Till then let not the weeds have power 


Let not this weak, unknowing hand 


To starve or stint the poorest flower. 


Presume Thy bolts to throw, 




And deal damnation round the land 


In all extremes. Lord, Thou art still 


On each I judge Thy foe. 


The mount whereto my hopes do flee ; 




Oh make my soul detest all ill, 


If I am right. Thy grace impart 


Because so much abhorred by Thee ; 
Lord, let Thy gracious trials show 
That I am just — or make me so. 


Still in the right to stay ; 
If I am wrong, oh teach my heart 


To find that better way. 


Save me alike from foolish pride 


Shall mountain, desert, beast, and tree, 


Or impious discontent. 


Yield to that heavenly voice of Thine, 


At aught Thy wisdom has denied. 


And shall that voice not startle me. 


Or aught Thy goodness lent. 


Nor stir this stone, this heart of mine ? 




No, Lord, till Thou new-bore mine ear, 


Teach me to feel another's woe, 


Thy voice is lost, I cannot hear. 


To hide the fault 1 see — 




That mercy I to others show, 


Fountain of light and living breath, 


That mercy show to me. 


Whose mercies never fail nor fade, 




Fill me with life that hath no death, 


Mean though I am, not wholly so. 


Fill me with light that hath no shade ; 
Appoint the remnant of my days 


Since quickened by Thy breath ; 
Oh lead me wheresoe'er I go, 


Through this day's life or death. 


To see Thy power and sing Thy praise. 


This day be bread and peace my lot — 


Lord God of gods ! before whose- throne 


All else beneath the sun 


Stand storms and fire, oh what shall we 


Thou know'st if best bestowed or not. 


Eeturn to heaven, that is our own. 


And let Thy wiU be done. 


When all the world belongs to Thee ? 




We have no offerings to impart. 


To Thee, whose temple is all space. 


But praises and a wounded heart. 


Whose altar earth, sea, skies, 




One chorus let all being raise ! 


Thou that sitt'st in heaven and see'st 


AU nature's incense rise ! 


My deeds without, my thoughts within, 


Albxandee Pope. 


Be Thou my prince, be Thou my priest — 




Command my soul, and cure my sin ; 




How bitter my afflictions be 


SDitJine ®|aculation. 


I care not, so I rise to Thee. 


Great God ! whose sceptre rules the earth, 


What I possess, or what I crave, 


Distil Thy fear into my heart. 


Brings no content, great God, to me. 


That, being rapt with holy mirth, 


If what I would, or what I have, 


I may proclaim how good Thou art ; 


Be not possessed and blest in Thee : 


Open my lips, that I may sing 


What I enjoy, oh make it mine. 


Full praises to my God, my king. 
56 


In making me, that have it, Thine. 



850 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


When winter fortunes cloud the brows 


Thou hast been with me from the womb, 


Of summer friends — when eyes grow strange — 


Witness to every conflict here ; 


When plighted faith forgets its vows, 


Nor wilt Thou leave me at the tomb — 


When earth and all things in it change^ 


Before Thy bar I must appear. 


Lord, Thy mercies fail me never ; 




Where once Thou lov'st, Thou lov'st for ever. 


The moment comes, the only one 




Of all my time to be foretold ; 


Great God ! whose kingdom hath no end, 


Yet when, and how, and where, can none 


Into whose secrets none can dive, 


Among the race of man unfold : 


Whose mercy none can apprehend. 




Whose justice none can feel and live, 


The moment comes when strength shall fail. 


What my dull heart cannot aspire 


When, health, and hope, and courage flown. 


To know, Lord, teach me to admire. 


I must go down into the vale 


John Qtjablbs. 


And shade of death with Thee alone. 




Alone with Thee ! — in that dread strife 




Uphold me through mine agony ; 


®l)0n, %ob, 0ee0t iWe, 


And gently be this dying life 




Exchanged for immortality. 


God, unseen but not unknown. 




Thine eye is ever fixed on me ; 


Then, when the unbodied spirit lands 


I dwell beneath Thy secret throne. 


Where flesh and blood have never trod. 


Encompassed by Thy deity. 


And in the unveiled presence stands. 




Of Thee, my Saviour and my God, 


Throughout this universe of space 




To nothing am I long allied ; 


Be mine eternal portion this. 


For flight of time, and change of place. 


Since Thou wert always here with me : 


My strongest, dearest bonds divide. 


That I may view Thy face in bliss, 




And be for evermore with Thee. 


Parents 1 had, but where are they ? 


James Montgomeet. 


Friends whom I knew I know no more ; 




Companions, once that cheered my way, 




Have dropped behind or gone before. 






JDeligl)! in ^ob onlg. 


Now I am one amidst a crowd 




Of life and action hurrying round ; 


I LOVE, and have some cause to love, the earth — 


Now left alone — for, like a cloud, 


She is my Maker's creature, therefore good. 


They came, they went, and are not found. 


She is my mother, for she gave me birth ; 




She is my tender nurse, she gives me food : 


Even from myself sometimes I part — 


But what 's a creature. Lord, compared with Thee f 


Unconscious sleep is nightly death — • 


Or what 's my mother or my nurse to me ? 


Yet surely by my couch Thou art. 




To prompt my pulse, inspire my breath. 


I love the air — her dainty sweets refresh 




My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me ; 


Of all that 1 have done and said 


Her shrill-mouthed choir sustain me with their 


How little can I now recall ! 


flesh, 


Forgotten things to me are dead ; 


And with their polyphonian notes delight me : 


With Thee they live, Thou know'st them 


But what 's the air, or all the sweets that she 


all. 


Can bless my soid withal, compared to Thee? 



TIME PAST, TIME PASSING, TIME TO COME. 



851 



I love the sea — she is my fellow-creature, 
My careful purveyor ; she provides me store ; 

She walls me round ; she makes my diet greater ; 
She wafts my treasui-e from a foreign shore : 

But, Lord of oceans, when compared with Thee, 

What is the ocean or her wealth to me ? 

To heaven's high city I direct my journey, 
Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye — 

Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney, 
Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky : 

But what is heaven, great God, compared to 
Thee ? 

Without Thy presence, heaven's no heaven to 



Without Thy presence, earth gives no refection ; 
Without Thy presence, sea affords no treas- 
ure ; 
Without Thy presence, air 's a rank infection ; 
Without Thy presence, heaven 's itself no pleas- 
ure: 
If not possessed, if not enjoyed in Thee, 
What 's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me 1 

The highest honors that the world can boast 
Are subjects far too low for my desire; ' 

The brightest beams of glory are, at most. 
But dying sparkles of Thy living fire ; 

The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be 

But nightly glow-worms if compared to Thee. 

Without Thy presence, wealth is bags of cares ; 

Wisdom but folly ; joy, disquiet, sadness ; 
Friendship is treason, and delights are snares, 

Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing mad- 
ness ; 
Without Thee, Lord, things be not what they be, 
Nor hav'e their being, when compared with Thee. 

In having all things, and not Thee, what have I '? 

Not having Thee, what have my labors got ? 
Let me enjoy but Thee, what further crave 1 1 

And having Thee alone, what have I not ? 
I wish nor sea, nor land, nor would I be 
Possessed of heaven, heaven unpossessed of Thee ! 

FUANCIS QUAKLES. 



QTime |)ast, QTime |)cissing, Wimz to 

LoED, Thou hast been Thy people's rest. 
Through all their generations — 

Their refuge when by troubles pressed, 
Their hope in tribulations : 

Thou, ere the mountains sprang to birth, 

Or ever Thou hadst formed the earth, 
Art God from everlasting. 

Our life is like the transient breath, 
That tells a mournful story — 

Early or late stopped short by death — 
And where is all our glory? 

Our days are threescore years and ten, 

And if the span be lengthened then. 
Their strength is toil and sorrow. 

Lo ! Thou hast set before Thine eyes 
All our misdeeds and errors ; 

Our secret sins from darkness rise 
At Thine awakening terrors : 

Who shall abide the trying hour ? 

Who knows the thunder of Thy power f 
We flee unto Thy mercy. 

Lord, teach us so to mark our days 
That we may prize them duly ; 

So guide our feet in wisdom's ways 
That we may love Thee truly ; 

Return, Lord ! our griefs behold. 

And with Thy goodness, as of old, 
Oh satisfy us early ! 

James Montgomekt. 



Stljon (Bob Hnsearcljable. 

Thou God unsearchable, unknown, 
Who still conceal'st Thyself from me, 

Hear an apostate spirit groan — 
Broke off and banished far from Thee ! 

But conscious of my fall I mourn, 

And fain I would to Thee return. 

Send forth one ray of heavenly light. 
Of gospel hope, of humble fear, 

To guide me through the gulf bf night — 
My poor desponding soul to cheer. 



852 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Till Thou my unbelief remove, 
And show me all Thy glorious love. 

A hidden God indeed Thou art — 
Thy absence- 1 this moment feel ; 

Yet must I own it from my heart — 
Concealed, Thou art a Saviour still ; 

And though Thy face I cannot see, 

I know Thine eye is fixed on me. 

My Saviour Thou, not yet revealed ; 

Yet will 1 Thee my Saviour call, 
Adore Thy hand — from sin withheld — 

Thy hand shall save me from my fall : 
Now, Lord, throughout my darkness shine, 
And show Thyself for ever mine. 

Chaklbs Wesley. 



(Bob. 

THOU eternal One ! whose presence bright 
All space doth occupy, all motion guide — 

Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight ! 
Thou only God — there is no God beside ! 

Being above all beings ! Mighty One, 

Whom none can comprehend and none explore ! 

Who fiU'st existence with Thyself alone — 
Embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er, — 
Being whom we call God, and know no more ! 

In its sublime research, philosophy 

May measure out the ocean-deep — may count 
The sands or the sun's rays — but, God ! for Thee 

There is no weight nor measure ; none can mount 
Up to Thy mysteries ; Eeason's brightest spark, 

Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try 
To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark ; 

And thought is lost ere thought can soar so 
high, 

Even like past moments in eternity. 

Thou from primeval nothingness dicjst call 
First chaos, then existence — Lord ! in Thee 

Eternity had its foundation ; all 

Sprung forth from Thee — of light, joy, har- 
mony, 



Sole Origin — all life, all beauty Thine ; 

Thy word created all, and doth create ; 
Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine ; 

Thou art, and wert, and shall be! Glorious! 
Great ! 

Light-giving, life-sustaining potentate ! 

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround — 

Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath ! 
Thou the beginning with the end hast bound. 

And beautifully mingled life and death ! 
As sparks mount upwards from the fiery blaze. 

So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from 
Thee; 
And as the spangles in the sunny rays 

Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry 
Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise. 

A million torches lighted by Thy hand 

Wander unwearied through the blue abyss — 
They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command. 

All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. 
What shall we call them ? Piles of crystal light — 

A glorious company of golden streams — 
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright — 

Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams ? 
But Thou to these art as the noon to night. 

Yes ! as a drop of water in the sea. 
All this magnificence in Thee is lost : — 

What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee ? 
And what am I then ? — Heaven's unnumbered 
host. 

Though miiltiplied by myriads, and arrayed 
In all the glory of sublimest thought. 

Is but an atom in the balance, weighed 
Against Thy greatness — is a cipher brought 
Against infinity ! What am I then ? Naught ! 

Naught ! But the efQuence of Thy light divine. 
Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too ; 

Yes ! in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine. 
As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. 

Naught ! but I live, and on hope's pinions fly 
Eager towards Thy presence — for in Thee 

I live, and breathe, and dwell, aspiring high. 
Even to the throne of Thy divinity, 
I am, God ! and surely Thou must be ! 



GOD. 



853 



Thou art ! — directing, guiding all — Thou art ! 

Direct my understanding then to Thee ; 
Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart ; 

Though but an atom midst immensity. 
Still I am something fashioned by Thy hand ! 

I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth — 
On the last verge of mortal being stand, 

Close to the realms where angels have their birth, 
Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land ! 

The chain of being is complete in me — 

In me is matter's last gradation lost. 
And the next step is spirit — deity ! 

I can command the lightning, and am dust ! 
A monarch and a slave — a worm, a god ! 

Whence came I here, and how ? so marvellously 
Constructed and conceived ? unknown ! this clod 

Lives surely through some higher energy ; 

For from itself alone it could not be ! 



Creator, yes ! Thy wisdom and Thy word 
Created me ! Thou source of lite and good ! 

Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord ! 
Thy light. Thy love, in their bright plenitude 

Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring 
Over the abyss of death ; and bade it wear 

The garments of eternal day, and wing 
Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere, 
Even to its source, to Thee, its author there. 

Oh thoughts ineffable ! oh visions blest ! 

Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee, 
Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast. 

And waft its homage to Thy deity. 
God ! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar. 

Thus seek Thy presence — Being wise and good ! 
Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore ; 
And when the tongue is eloquent no more. 

The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. 

Gabriel Eomanowitcu Dbkzhavin. (Russian.) 
Translation of John Bowbing. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



PAGE 

A baby was sleeping Lover. 116 

A barking sound the shepherd hears Wordsworth. 81 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase ! ) Hunt. 642 

Accept, tliou shrine of my dead saint King. 547 

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound Campbell. 518 

Across the narrow beach we flit Thaxter. 71 

A cypress-bough and a rose-wreath sweet Beddoes. 552 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever Burns. 265 

Mux in the desert I love to ride P?ingle. 59 

A fig for St. Denis of Fi'ance Maginn. 472 

Again I sit within the mansion B. Taylor. 554 

A good sword and a trusty hand Hawker. 383 

A good that never satisfies the mind Brummond. 707 

A grace thongh melancholy, manly too H. Taylor. 544 

Ah, little ranting Johnny Hunt. 118 

Ah! love, impute it not to me a sin Blunt. ^7 

Ah, lovely appearance of death Wesley. 838 

Ah me ! full sorely is my heart forlorn S7i£nstqne. 133 

Ah me ! this is a sad and sOent city •.Bethune. IT! 

Ah ! my heart is weary waiting Mac Carthy. 8 

Ah, my Perilla ! dost thou grieve to see Herrick. 732 

A host of angels flying Stmts. 149 

Ah, sweet Kitty Neal, rise np from your. . .J. F. Waller. 271 

Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how Hood. 277 

Ah, then, hov/ sweetly closed those crowded days. Allston. 141 
Ah, yes — the tight! Well, messmates, well. .AnoreymoMS. 405 

A lake and a fairy boat Hood. 596 

Alas, that moon should ever beam Hood. 596 

All in the Downs the fleet was moored Gay. 215 

All June I hound the rose in sheaves R. Browning. 294 

All the world over, I wonder, in lands that I never. Lyall. 780 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights Coleridge. 224 

All through the golden weather Eodd. 293 

All ye woods, and trees, and bowers. . .Beaumont & Fl. 51 

Alow and aloof Read. 104 

Although I enter not Thackeray. 275 

Amazing, beauteous change Doddridge. 836 

Amid the chapel's checkered gloom Anonyrnxms. 315 

A mist was driving down the British Ch&rmel.Longfellow. 557 

Among the beautiful pictures Cary. 151 

Among the myrtles as I walkt Herrick. 252 

An ancient story I'll tell you anon Anonymous. 426 

And are ye sure the news is tree Adam. 265 

And doth not a meeting like this make amends . T. Moore. 174 

And hast thou sought thy heavenly home ? Moir. 156 

And is this — Yarrow ? — This the stream . . Wordsworth. 75 
And the first gray of morning filled the east.M. Arnold. 498 

And thou hast walked about (how strange H. Smith. 639 

And where have you been, my Mary .M. Howitt. 583 

An empty sky, a world of heather Ingelow. 298 

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky Emerson. 107 

An old song made by an aged old pate Anonymous. 431 

A poor wayfaring man of grief J. Montgomery. 804 



PAGE 

Arethusa arose Shelley. 24 

Around the tomb, O bard divine Antipater. 678 

Around this lovely valley rise Trowbridge. 43 

Arrayed, a half angelic si^ht C. Lamb. 114 

A safe stronghold om- God is still Luther. 841 

As a twig trembles, which a bird Lowell. 150 

As by the shore at break of day Moore. 383 

A sensitive plant in a garden grew Shelley. 87 

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay Clough. 169 

As I gaed down by yon house-en' Anonymous. 496 

A sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim. Whitman. 397 

A simple child Wordsworth. 145 

As it fell upon a day Barnfield. 38 

As I was walking by my lane Anonymous. 575 

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea. yennysore. 300 

As o'er his furrowed fields, which lie Whittier. 757 

As slow our ship her foamy track T. Moore. 179 

A steed ! a steed of matchlesse speed Motherwell. 366 

As through the land at eve we went Tennyson. 160 

A street there is in Paris famous Thackeray. 176 

A sweet disorder in the dress Herrick. 674 

A thousand miles from land are we B. Cornwall. 67 

At midnight, in his guarded tent Halleck. 412 

At Paris it was, at the opera there Lytton. 327 

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still . Beattie. 763 

At the gate of old CJranada, when all its Anonymous. 509 

Autumn's sighing Read. 93 

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints Milton. 742 

Awake, thou wintry earth Blackburn. 801 

Away ! let naught to love displeasing Anonymous. 333 

A weary lot is thine, fair maid Scott. 303 

A weary weed, tossed to and fro Fenner. 69 

A wee bird came to our ha' door Glen. 380 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea Cunningham. 67 

Ay, this is freedom— these pure skies Bryant. 85 

Balder, the white sun-god, has departed Anonymous. 638 

Balow, my babe, ]y stil and sleipe Anonymous. 140 

Bards of passion and of mirth Keats. 694 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead E. Browning. 325 

Beautiful ! Sir, you may say so B. Harte. 60 

Beauty clear and fair Beaumont and Fletcher. 251 

Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe Bonne. 775 

Before the oeginning of years Swinburne. 639 

Before the stan-y threshold of Jove's court Milton. 599 

Behold her, single in the field Wordsworth. 676 

Behold the young, the rosy Spring Anacreon. 6 

Behold this ruin ! 'Twas a skull Anonymous. 776 

Ben Battle was a soldier bold Hood. 465 

Ben Bobstay, a tar of the jolly old sort Anonymous. 470 

Beneath this stony roof reclined Warton. 48 

Be patient, oh, be patient ! Anonymous. 748 

Beside a massive gateway built up in years Bryant. 734 



856 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Between the dark and the daylight Longfellow. 144 

Beyond the smiling and the weeping Bonai: 831 

Bird of the wilderness Hogg. 13 

Blest as the immortal gods is he Sappho. 261 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind Shakespeare. 105 

Bobolink that in the meadow Hill. 15 

Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen Hogg. 579 

Brave singer of tlie coming time Holmes. 181 

Break, break, break Tennyson. 566 

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning Heber. Y97 

Bring me wine, but wine which never grew Emerson. 719 

Brother, thou art gone before us Milman. 827 

Burly, dozin" humble-bee Emerson. 55 

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride. . .Hamilton. 489 

Busy, curious, thirsty fly Oldys. 55 

By myself walking C Lamb. 463 

By the flow of the inland river Finch. 398 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood Emerson. 388 

Cables entangling her Hood. 

Can I see another's woe Blake. 

Captain, or colonel, or knight in arms Milton. 

Ca' the yowes to the knowes Burns. 

Cheeks as soft as July peaches Bennett. 

Children are what mothers are Landor. 

Christmas is here Thackeray. 

Clang, clang ! the massive anvils ring Anonymous. 

Close his eyes ; his work is done Boker. 

Cold in the earth, and the deep snow piled above..B?'0?i)!e. 

Come away, come aw'ay, death Shakesjjeare. 

Come back, come back together Landon. 

Come, dear children, let us away M. Arnold. 

Come down, ye graybeard mariners Hutchinson. 

Come, follow, follow me Anonymovs. 

Come from my first, ay, come ! Praed. 

Come, golden evening, in the west J. Montgomery . 

Come in the evening, or come in the morning Davis. 

Come into the garden, Maud Tennyson. 

Come listen to me, you gallants so free Anonymous. 

Come live with me, and be my love Marlowe. 

Come, lovely and soothing Death W. Whitman. 

Come, my way, my truth, my life Herbert. 

Come, O Thou traveller unknown Wesley. 

Come, said Jesus' sacred voice Barbauld. 

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged Ferguson. 

Come, send round the wine, and leave points. . T.Moore. 
Come sleep, O sleep ! the certain knot of peace .Sidney. 

Come then, tell me, sage divine Akenside. 

Come to these scenes of peace Bowles. 

Come unto these yellow sands Shakespeare. 

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet. Tennyson. 

Contemplate all this work of time Tennyson. 

Coi'poral Green ! the' orderly cried Shepherd. 

Conld I command, with voice or pen ./. Montgomery. 

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas Craik. 

Courage, he said, and pointed toward the land. Tennyson. 

Crabbed age and youth Shakespeare. 

Creator spu-it, by whose aid St. Ambrose. 

Creep into thy narrow bed M. Arnold. 

Cromwell, our chief of men, who thro' a cloud.. .Milton. 
Cyriac, this three years day these eyes, tho' cledii. Milton. 



Dark as the clouds of even Boker. 396 

Dark fell the night, the watch was set Sterling . 356 

Darknessis thinning; shadows are retreating.^i. Ch-egwy. 789 

Darlings of the forest ! E. T. Cooke. 31 

Daughter to that good Earl, once President Milton. 743 

Day, in melting purple dying Brooks. 383 

Day-stars ! that ope your eyes with morn H. Smith. 37 

Dead ! one of them shot by the sea Mrs. Browning. 563 

Dear child, whom sleep can hardly tame Sterling. 122 

Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd Cotton. 341 

Dear common flower, that gro w'st beside the way. Lowell. 33 

Dearest, do not delay me Beavmont and Fletcher. 251 

Dear Fanny, nine long years ago Hood. 126 

Dear friend andfellow-student Mrs. Browning. 226 

Dear friend, far off, my lost desire Tennyson. 167 

Dear mother, dear mother, the church is cold Blake. 133 

Dear sister, while the wise and sage Whittier. 677 



PAGE 

Deep in the wave is a coral grove Percival. 71 

Der noble Ritter Hugo Leland. 483 

Die down, O dismal day ! and let me Wve.. David Gray. 108 

Dip down upon the northern shore Tennyson. 4 

Dost thou look back on what hath been Tennyson. 166 

Down in the wide, gray river B. T. Cooke. 565 

Down lay in a nook my lady's brach H. Taykn: 726 

Down the dimpled greensward dancing Darley. 132 

Drink to me only with thine eyes Philostratus. 2*19 

Drop, drop, slow tears P. Fletcher. 812 

Each sorrowful mourner, be silent Prudentius. 830 

Earth has not anything to show more fair . . Wordsworth. 9 

Earth, of man the bounteous mother Sterling. 83 

Earth, with her ten thousand flowers Anonymovs. 847 

Eight bells ! eight bells ! their clear tone tells. . .Butler. 763 

Eternal source of every joy Doddridge. 792 

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind Byron. 512 

Ever let the fancy roam Keats. 103 

Every wedding, says the proverb Parsons. 383 

Faintly as tolls the evening chime Moore. 673 

Pair dafiiodils ! we weep to see Herrick. 30 

Pair pledges of a fruitful tree Heii'ick. 30 

Fairshon swore a feud Aytoun. 456 

Fair stood the wind for France Drayton. 363 

Farewell ! but whenever you welcome the hour. T. Moore. 175 

Farewell rewards and fairies Corbett. 593 

Farewell ! thou art too dear Shakespeare. 343 

Farewell, thou busy world Cotton. 49 

Farewell to Lochaber ! and farewell, my Jean. .iJamsay. 376 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong Burns. 497 

Father, by thy love and power Anonymous, 793 

Father of all, in every age Po})e. 847 

Father, thy wonders do not singly stand Very. 792 

Fear no more the heat o' the sun Shalcespeare. 550 

Fill the bumper fair ! T. Moore. 173 

First catch your clams — along the ebbing edges . Crqfut. 463 

First time he kissed me, he but only Mrs. Browning. 246 

Five years ha^'e passed ; five summers Wordsworth. 78 

Flung to the heedless winds Lvther. 819 

Fly not yet — 'tis .iust the hour Moore. 385 

Fly to the desert, fly with me Moore. 269 

Fold thy little hands in prayer Willmott. 148 

Friend of all who seek thy favor Wesley. 809 

From all that dwell below the skies Watts. 843 

From his brimstone bed at break of day Coleridge. 460 

From my lips in their defilement Damascenus. 802 

FromOberon, in f any land Anonymous. 576 

From Stirling Castle we had seen Wordsworth. 74 

From you have I been absent in the s\irmg. Shakespeare. 343 
Full many a glorious morning have I seen.. Shakespeare. 164 

Gamarra is a dainty steed B. Cornwall. 61 

Gane were but the winter cauld Cumnngham. 548 

Gather ye rose-buds as ye may Herrick. 333 

Genteel in personage Anonymous. 284 

Gentlefolks, in my time, I've made many Dibdin. 456 

Gin a body meet a body Anonymous. 388 

God is a name my soul adores Watts. 844 

God is the refuge of his saints Watts. 841 

God makes sech nights, all white an' still Lowell. 390 

God moves in a mysterious way Cowper. 844 

God prosper long our noble king Anonymous. 359 

God save our gracious king Anonymous. 384 

God sends his teachers unto every age Lowell. 613 

God shield ye, heralds of the spring Ronsard. 3 

God, who the universe doth hold Davison. 840 

Goe, soul, the bodie's guest Raleigh. 703 

Go, lovely rose ! Waller. 34 

Go now ! and with some daring drug Crashaw. 719 

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer ! Allingham. 80 

Good bye. proud world ! I'm going home Emerson. 717 

Good-morrow to thy sable beak Baillie. 21 

Good muse, rock me asleep Wordsworth. 707 

Good people all, of every sort Goldsmith. 433 

Good people all, with one accord Goldsmith. 455 

Go, sit by the summer sea Anonymous. 286 

Go to dark Gethsemane J. Montgomery. 800 



INDUX OF FIRST LINES. 



857 



PAGE 

Go where glory waits tliee Mome. 269 

Great are the myths — I too delight in them . W. Wldtman. 634 

Great God. whose sceptre rules the earth J. Quarles. 849 

Green he the turf above thee Halleck. 559 

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass Hunt. 54 

Guvener B. is a sensible man Lowell. 484 

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! Logan. 16 

Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good Cowley. 733 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! Shelley. 10 

Hail to the Lord's anointed J. Montgomery. 799 

Half a league, half a league Tennyson. 402 

Half-sleeping, by the fire I sit Mills. 561 

Hame, hame, hame ! oh hame I fain Cunniiigliam. 380 

Hamelin town 's in Brunswick E. Browning. 1S8 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty Leland. 483 

Happy art thou, whom God does bless Cowley. 46 

Happy insect, can it be Anacreon. 53 

Happy insect, ever blest W. Harte. 54 

Happy songster, perched above Anacreon. 54 

Happy the man whose wish and care Pope. 732 

Hark ! ah, the Nightingale M. Arnold. 40 

Hark — hark! the lark at heaven's gate Shakespeare. 10 

Hark ! some wild trumpeter W. Whitman. 669 

Hark ! the faint bells of the sunken city Mueller. 718 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning.. <S. T. Coleridge. 110 

Hast thou seen that lordly castle TJhland. 563 

Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell S. T. Coleridge. 595 

Hear the sledges with the bells Poe. 665 

Hear what God the Lord hath spoken Cowper. 835 

He came across the meadow-pass Anonymous. 237 

He filled the crystal goblet Hazewell. 384 

" Heigho," yawned one day King Francis. .B. Browning. 210 

He is gone on the mountain Scott. 548 

Hence, all you vain delights Beaumont and Fletcher. 726 

Hence, loathed Melancholy Milton. 698 

Hence, vain deluding joys Milton. 700 

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling Bibdin. 524 

Here, here, oh here, Eurydice Lovelace. 309 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere Roberts. 42 

Here 's a health to ane I lo'e dear Burns. 265 

Here 's a health to them that 's awa Burns. 377 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer Tennyson. 822 

Her eyes are wild, her head is bare '. . W07'dsworth. 141 

Her eyes the glo w-vvorme lend thee Herrick. 254 

Her snffering ended with the day J. Aldrich. 541 

He sang so wildly, did the boy Burbidge. 124 

He that loves a rosy cheek Careiu. 254 

He that of such a height hath built his mind Daniel. 704 

He who died at Azan sends E. Arnold. 783 

Hey, now the day's dawning A. Montgomery. 9 

Hie upon Hielands Anonymous. 496 

Home they brought her warrior dead Tennyson. 1.59 

Ho ! pretty page, with the dimpled chin Thackeray. 729 

Ho, sailor of the sea Dobell. 523 

How are thy servants blest, O Lord Addison. 842 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my. Woodworth. 652 

How delicious is the winning Campbell. 282 

How do I love thee ? Let me count Mrs. Browning. 246 

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Herbert. 806 

How happy is he born and taught Wotton. 756 

How like a winter hath my absence been. . .Shakespeare. 243 
How little fades from earth when sink to rest . . Sterling. 679 

How little recks it where men lie Barry. 419 

How many paltry, foolish, painted things Drayton. 245 

How many summers, love Cornwall. 343 

How near me came the hand of death Wither. 829 

Iiow orient is thy beauty ! How divine F. Quarles. 806 

How seldom, friend, a good, great man ..S. T. Coleridge. 742 

How should I your true love know Shakespeare. 257 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest Collins. 384 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth. .Milton. 742 

How spake of old the Royal Seer Thackeray. 729 

How stands the glass around ? Anonymous. 174 

How sweet it were, if without feeble fright Hunt. 769 

How sweetly doth my master sound Herbert. 805 

How the earth burns ! Each pebble under foot. .Blunt. 58 

How vainly men themselves amaze Marvell. 45 

Hush ! my dear, lie stiU and slumber /. Watts. 160 



PAGE 

I am a friar of orders gray O^Keefe. 729 

I am monarch of all I survey Cowper. 641 

I arise from dreams of thee Shelley. 262 

I ask not that my bed of death M. Arnold. 774 

I bade thee stay. Too well I know S. H. Whitman. 293 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers. . .Shelley. 63 

I cannot eat but little meat St^l. 428 

I cannot make him dead Pierpont. 157 

I come from the haunts of coot and hern Tennyson. 26 

I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way Shelley. 27 

I envy not, in any moods Tennyson. 165 

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song Collins. 97 

I feel a newer life in every gale Percival. 7 

If I desire with pleasant songs Burbidge. 287 

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou Mrs. Browning. 246 

I fill this cup to one made up Pinkney. 278 

If it be true that any beauteous thing Michel Angelo. 245 

If love were what the rose is Swinburne. 251 

If that the world and love were young Raleigh. 259 

If the red slayer think he slays Emerson. 714 

If this fair rose offend Congreve and Somerville. 248 

If thou must love me, let it be for Mrs. Browning. 246 

If thou wert by my side, my love Heber. 340 

If thou wilt ease thine heart Beddoes. 562 

If to be absent were to be Lovelace. 255 

If you become a nun, dear Hunt. 284 

I give thee treasures hour by hour R. T. Cooke. 319 

I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years. .Moultrie. 151 

I have got a new-born sister M. Lamb. 114 

I have had playmates, I have had companions. C Lamb. 170 

I have ships that went to sea Coffin. 647 

I heard a sick man's dyin^ sigh Praed. 481 

I hear no more the locust beat Shepherd. 274 

I in these flowery meads would be Walton. 14 

I journey through a desert drear and Vi\\&.. Anonymous. 803 

I know not what it presages Heim. 595 

I know that all beneath the moon decays. . .Drummond. 245 

I like a church : I like a cowl Emerson. 752 

I'll wreathe my sword in myrtle-bou^h Callistratus. 354 

I love, and have some cause to love, the earth.2''. Quarles. 850 

I loved him not ; and yet, now he is gone Landor. 293 

I loved thee long and dearly P. P. Cooke. 323 

I love to look on a scene like this Willis. 132 

I love to wander through the woodlands . /S. H. WJiitman. 82 

I mourn no more my vanished years Whittier. 815 

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary Dufferin. 535 

I must not say that thou wert true M. Arnold. 322 

I'm wearin' awa', John Nairne. 827 

In a coign of the cliff between lowland Swinburne. 91 

In a dream of the night I was wafted away Hyslop. 374 

In darker days and nights of storm Parker. 820 

I never gave a lock of hair away Mrs. Browning. 246 

In good King Charles's golden days Anonymous. 479 

In Ireland f err over the sea Anonymous. 195 

In Koln, a town of monks and bones Coleridge. 460 

In London was young Beichan born Anonymous. 200 

In martial sports I had my cunning tried Sidney. 244 

In May, when sea- winds pierced our ioWtades.. Emerson. 31 

In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay Dimond. .522 

In summer, when the days were long Anonymous. 274 

In the desert of the Holy Land I strayed . . .Anonymous. 811 

In he hour of my distress Herrick. 825 

In I eir ragged regimentals McMaster. 389 

In tl. 3 merrie moneth of Maye Breton. 247 

In the old churchyard of his native tov?n Longfellow. I'ii'i 

In this world, the isle of dreams Herrick. 743 

Into the silent land Salis. 539 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan S. T. Coleridge. 614 

In yonder dim and pathless wood TJhland. 749 

Iphigenia, when she heard her doom Landor. 509 

I remember, I remember Hood. 144 

I said to sorrow's awful storm L. Stoddard. 737 

I sat with Doris, the shepherd-maiden Munby. 236 

I saw him last on this terrace proud H. Smith. 557 

I saw him once before ." Holmes. 732 

I saw the twinkle of white feet Lowell. 674 

I saw two clouds at morning Brainard. 339 

I say to thee, do thou repeat Trench. 831 

Is it come ? they said, on the banks of the Nile. .Browra. 745 



858 



INDEX OF FIBST LINES. 



PAGE 

I sought thee round about, thou my God . . .HeyxvooA. 844 
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and he. .5. Browning. 385 

Is there for honest poverty Burns. 744 

Is there, when the winds are singing Blanchard. 183 

Is this a fast — to keep the larder lean Herrick. 816 

It is an ancient mariner S. T. Coleridge. 615 

It is a place where poets crowned Mrs. Browning. 685 

It is not that my lot is low JS. K. White. 561 

It is the miller's daughter Tennyson. TTt 

It is the poet TJliland, from whose wreathings. . .Butler. 692 

It little profits that, an idle king Tennyson. 631 

I too have suffered. Yet I know M. Arnold. 321 

It was a beauteous lady richly dressed Norton. 332 

It was a friar of orders gray Percy. 208 

It was a summer evening Southey. 649 

It was many and many a year ago Poe. 335 

It was not in the winter Hood. 278 

It was the calm and silent night Domett. 813 

It was the schooner Hesperus Longfellow. 520 

It was the season when thro' all the land Longfellow. 31 

I've taught thee love's sweet lesson o'er barley. 279 

I've wandered east, I've wandered west Motherwell. 311 

I wandered by the brook-side Milnes. 377 

I wandered, lonely as a cloud Wordsworth. 30 

I was thy neighbor once, thou rugged pile. Wordsworth. 70 

I weigh not fortune's frown or smUe Sylvester. 702 

I went to her who loveth me no more . . . Shavghnessy. 295 

I went to the garden of love Blake. 753 

I wish I were where Helen lies Anonymous. 497 

I would I were an excellent divine Breton. 816 

Jaflar, the Barmecide, the good vizier Hvnt. 168 

Jenny kissed me when we met Hunt. 293 

Jesus, lover of my soul Wesley. 808 

Jesus shall reign where'er the sun Watts. 800 

John Anderson, my jo, John Burns. 344 

John Gilpin was a citizen Cowper. 452 

Just for a handful of silver he left us B. Browning. 555 

Ken ye aught of brave Lochiel Anonymous. 526 

King Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid. . .Anonymovs. 358 
King Charles, and who'll do him right now . iJ. Browning. 369 

King of kings, and Lord of lords ; . . .Milman. 847 

Kulnasatz, my reindeer Anonymous. 261 

Lars Porsena of Clusium Macanlay. 347 

Last night, among his fellow roughs Doyle. 415 

Late at e'en, drinking the wine Anonymous. 488 

Laud the first spring daisies Toul. 31 

Lessons sweet of Spring returning Keble. 5 

Let me move slowly through the street Bryant. 717 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds . . Shakespeare. 244 

Let observation, with extensive view Johnson. 721 

Let those who are in favor with their %t&rs . Shakespeare. 164 

Life and Death are sisters fair Anonymous. 766 

Life, I know not what thou art Barhavld. 782 

Life of life ! Thy lips enkindle Shelley. 109 

Like a blind spinner in the sun Jackson. 741 

Like Etna's dread volcano, see the ample forge .Dibdin. 645 

Like as the damask rose you see Wastel. 773 

Like some vision olden London. 126 

Like the violet, which alone Habington. 253 

Like to the falling of a star King. 773 

Lily on liquid roses floating Kenyon. 173 

Listed into the cause of sin Wesley. 818 

Lithe and listen, gentlemen Anonymous. 423 

Little inmate, full of mirth Bourne. 102 

Little streams are light and shadow M. Howitt. 25 

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked Emerson.. 749 

Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day Campbell. 378 

Lo ! here a little volume, but great book Crashaw. 817 

Lo, my Shepherd's hand divine Merrick. 840 

Lone upon a mountain, the pine-trees wailing. .iondo?i. 279 

Look at me with thy large brown eyes Graik. 117 

Look out upon the stars, my love Pinkney. 277 

Lord, how long, how long wilt thou Davison. 839 

Lord Lovel he stood at his castle gate Anonymous. 204 

Lord, thou hast been thy people's rest. .J'. Montgomery. 851 
Lord, when those glorious lights I see Wither. 794 



PASB 

Loud he sang the psalm of David Longfellow. 764 

Loud is the Summer's busy song .' . Clare. 43 

Loud w ind ! strong wind ! sweeping o'er the Craik. 106 

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling Dobson. 287 

Love is a sickness full of woes Daniel. 248 

Love is the blossom where there blows Fletcher. 253 

Love knoweth every form of air Willis. 287 

Love me if I live Cornwall. 272 

Love me little, love me long Anonymous. 250 

Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay Norton. 332 

Love not me for comely grace Anonymous. 258 

Love thy mother, little one Hood. 119 

Low spake the knight to the peasant-girl Sterling. 313 

Maid of Athens, ere we part Byron. 362 

Malbrouck, the prince of commanders Anonymous. 430 

Many a year is in its grave I'hland. 168 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale Scott. 379 

Margarita 6ist possessed Cowley. 283 

Martial, the things that do attain Surrey. 698 

Mary to her Saviour's tomb Newton. 801 

Maud Muller, on a summer's day Whittier. 314 

Maxwelton braes are bonnie Douglas. 267 

May, queen of blossoms Thurlovj. 8 

May the Babylonish curse C. Lamb. 464 

Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning . ■/■. F. Waller. 236 

Men have done brave deeds Anonymous. 416 

Methinks it is good to be here Knowles. 778 

Milton, thou shouldst be living at this hour. Wordsworth. 417 

Mine be a cot beside the hill Sogers. 340 

Moon of harvest, herald mild H. 1{. White. 100 

Mortal miied of middle clay. Emerson. 718 

Mournfully ! oh, mournfully Motherwell. 105 

Mourn, O re.ioicing heart Anonymous. 736 

Much have 1 travelled in the realms of gold. .... .Keats. 693 

My boat is on the shore Byron. 175 

My brier that smelledst sweet Landor. 33 

My coachman, in the moonlight there Lowell. 725 

My days among the dead are passed JS. Southey. 708 

My dear and only love, I pray Montrose. 259 

My dear Redeemer, and my God Watts. 807 

My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! Anonymous. 225 

My God, I heard this day Herbert. 757 

My God, I love thee ! not because Xavier. 802 

My hair is gray, but not with years Byron. 512 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains . . . Keats. 39 

My heart 's in the Highlands Burns. 85 

My held is like to rend, Willie Mothenvell. 313 

My life is like the summer rose B. H. Wilde. 738 

My loved, my honored, much-respected friend. . .Burns. 753 

My love has talked with rocks and trees Tennyson. 339 

My love he built me a bonny bower Anonymous. 497 

My minde to me a kingdom is Byrd. 705 

My mother bore me in the southern wild Blake. 147 

My soul, there is a country Vaughan. 836 

My soul to-day Eead. 73 

My spirit longeth for thee Byrom. 811 

Mysterious Night ! when our first parent. ..J.B. White. 101 
My wind has turned to bitter north Clough. 738 

Nearer, my God, to thee Adams. 845 

Needy knife-gi-inder, whither are you going. . . Canning. 461 

Never any more R. Browning. 301 

Next to thee, O fair gazelle B. Taylor. 56 

Noblest Charis, you that are Jonson. 349 

No cloud, no relict of the sunken day. ..S. T. Coleridge. 40 

No god to mortals oftener descends Landor. 765 

No more these simple flowers belong Whittier. 691 

No seas again shall sever Bonar. 837 

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea P. Southey. 530 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note Wolfe. 556 

Not as all other women are Lowell. 276 

Nothing under the sun is new Cook. 731 

Not in the swaying of the summer trees E. Arnold. 673 

Not marbfe, nor the gilded monuments Shakespeare. 165 

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soxiX. Shakespeare. 244 

Not on a prayerless bed ■ Mercer. 821 

Not ours the vows of such as plight Barton. 339 

Now glory to the Lord of hosts Macaulay. 307 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



859 



Now is done thy long day's work Tennyson. 549 

Now ponder well, you parents dear A^wnymous. 138 

Now that Tom Dunstan 's cold Buchanan. 415 

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger. ..Milton. 6 

Now the lusty Spring is seen. . .Beaumont and Fletcher. 7 

Now there 's peace on the shore Lockhart. 381 

Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian . y;'€«c^. 637 

O, a dainty plant is the ivy green BicTcens. 93 

O Arranmore, loved Arranmore Moore. 744 

O beauteous God, uncircumscribed treasure.. J'. Taylor. 836 

O blithe new-comer, I have heard Wordsworth. 16 

O, breathe not his name, let it sleep in the ih&ie. Moore. 549 

O, Brignall banks are wild and fair Scott. 239 

Och hone ! and what will I do Lover. 289 

O come away, make no delay Vmighan. 805 

O Death ! thou tvrant fell and bloody Burns. 545 

O, did you see him riding down Perry. 281 

O dig a grave, and dig it deep W. S. Roscoe. 551 

O famt, delicious, spring-time violet Story. 34 

Of all the thoughts of God that are Mrs. Browning. 764 

0, fear not thou to die Anonymous. 835 

Of Lentren in the first morning Dunbar. 629 

Of mortal glory, O soon darkened ray Drummand. 774 

Of Nelson and the north Campbell. 403 

for a closer walk with God Cowper. 846 

Oft as my lady san^ for me Parsons. 673 

Of 1 1 had heard of Lucy Gray Wordsworth. 143 

Oft in the stilly night Moore. 761 

Oft I see at twilight S. H. Whitman. 565 

O gentle, gentle summer rain Bennett. 62 

O God, my strength and fortitude Sternhold. 839 

O God, unseen but not unknown ./. Montgomery. 850 

O God, whose thunder shakes the sky Chatterton. 847 

O happy sleep ! that bear'st upon thy breast. . . . Martin. 103 

happy Thames that didst my Stella bear Sidney. 244 

O, how much more doth beauty Shakesjieare. 165 

O, it is great for our country to die Percival. 354 

0, Kenmure 's on and awa, Willie Burns. 377 

lady, leave thy silken thread Hood. 675 

O lady, thy lover is dead, they cried MacDonald. 326 

Old stories tell how Hercules Anonymous. 427 

Old Time and I, the other night Lemon. 483 

Old wine to drink ! ' Messinger. 171 

O leave the past to bury its own dead Blunt. 247 

O Love divine, how sweet thou art Wesley. 823 

lovely Mary Donnelly, it 's you I love Allingham. 270 

Love, whose patient pilgrim feet David G-ray. 344 

O Mary, go and call the cattle home Kingsley. 498 

O, may I join the choir invisible Eliot. 780 

O melancholy bird, a winter's day Thurlow. 107 

O mother dear, Jerusalem Anonymous. 833 

O mother of a mighty race Bryant. 391 

O, my love 's like the steadfast sun Cunningham. 343 

O, my luve's like a red, red rose Burns. 266 

On a bleak ridge, from whose granite edges. . .Burleigh. 677 

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands Bryant. 393 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered Poe. 623 

On deck, beneath the awning Thackeray. 468 

One day I wrote her name upon the strand Spenser. 242 

On either side the river lie Tennyson. 597 

One more unfortunate Hood. 536 

One silent nio;ht of late Anacreon. 286 

O never say mat I was false of heart Shakespeare. 244 

O never talk again to me Byron. 263 

One word is too often profaned Shelley. 263 

nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Milton. 38 

On Linden, when the sun was low Campbell. 400 

On the cross-beam under the Old South bell Willis. .52 

On the sea and at the Hogue .B. Browning. 409 

On thy fair bosom, silver'lake Percival. 74 

On Trinitye Mondaye in the mom Anonymous. 569 

O reader, hast thou ever stood to see E. Southey. 105 

Orphan Hours, the Year is dead Shelley. 108 

Orpheus, with his lute, made trees Shakespeare. 669 

O, Saint Patrick was a gentleman Bennett. 471 

0, saw ye Bonnie Leslie Burns. 268 

O, saw ye not fair Ines Hood. 268 

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light Key. 390 



PAGE 

O say not that my heart is cold Wolfe. 739 

O sing unto my roundelay Chatterton. 324 

0, snatched away in beauty's bloom Byron. 548 

O talk not to me of a name great in story Byron . 392 

O, that last day in Lucknow fort Loioell. 414 

O that those lips had language! Life has passed . 6'oz<;per. 653 

that 'twere possible Tennyson. .308 

O the Broom, the yellow Broom M. Howitt. 32 

O, the French are on the say Anonymms. 385 

O the gallant fisher's life Chalkhill. 13 

the pleasant days of old Brown. 743 

O those little, those little blue shoes Bennett. 150 

O thou eternal One, whose presence bright . .Derzhavin. 852 

O thou, that swing'st upon the waving ear Lovelace. 53 

O thou, the wonder of all dayes Herrick. 550 

O thou whose fancies from afar Wordsworth. 121 

O thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hang Keats. 50 

Tim, did you hear of thim Saxons Thackeray. 475 

Our band is few, but true and tried Bryant. 389 

Our bugles sang truce ; for the night-cloud . . . Campbell. 649 

Our life is twofold ; sleep hath its own world Byron. 296 

Outstretched beneath the leafy shade Southey. 766 

Over hill, over dale Shakespeare. 578 

Over the mountains Anonymous. 306 

Over the river they beckon to me Wakefield. 781 

O waly, waly, up the bank Anonymous. 311 

O, wert thou in the cauld blast Burns. 267 

O, what can ail thee, kni^ht-at-arms Keats. 579 

O when 'tis summer weather Bowles. 44 

0, where do fairies hide their heads Bayly. 584 

O wherefore come ye forth, m triumph from .Macavlay. 369 
O, where hae yebeen. Lord Randal, my sow . Anonymous. 493 

O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud Knox. 776 

wild "West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's. ..Shelley. 65 

O, "Willie 's gane to Melville Castle Anonymous. 455 

O, will ye choose to hear the news Thackeray. 476 

O world ! O life ! O time ! Shelley. 562 

O, yet we trust that somehow good Tennyson. 821 

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west Scott. 238 

Pack clouds away, and welcome day Heywood. 12 

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies Wordsworth. 28 

Peace to the slumberers Moore. 384 

Peace ! what can tears avail ? Cornwall. 541 

People, appear, approach, advance Anonymous. 463 

Phoebus, arise Drummond. 1 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Scott. 379 

Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray. West-wood. 147 

Piping down the valleys wild Blake. 113 

Praise to God, immortal praise Barbavld. 837 

Prayer is the soul's sincere desire J. Montgomery. 820 

Prince Eugene, our noble leader Anonymous. 366 

Proud Maisie is in the wood Scott. 555 

Prune thou thy words ; the thoughts con\xo\ . .Newman. 728 

Prythee, Willy, tell me this Wither. 679 

Put the broidery-frame away Mrs. Browning. 317 

Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid. . .Anonymcfus. 494 
Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares Wotton. 14 

Rarely, rarely comest thou Shelley. 710 

Rear high thy bleak majestic hills Eoscoe. 689 

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow Goldsmith. 654 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky Tennyson. 812 

Ring, sing ! rm^. sing ! pleasant Sabbath Buchanan. 594 

Rippling thro' th.v branches goes the sunshine. ..Loivell. 51 

Rise, heart ! thy Lord is risen Herbert. 801 

Rise ! Sleep no more ! 'Tis a noble morn Cornwall. 86 

Rise up. rise up, now. Lord Douglas Anonymous. 491 

Rise up, rise up, Xarifa Anonymous. 221 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane. . .Longfellow. 769 

Rocked in the cradle of the deep Willard. 808 

Rock of ages, cleft for me Toplady. 807 

Ruin seize thee, ruthless king Gray. 364 

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going De Vere. 737 

Saint Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was Keats. 317 

Saint Anthony at church Anonymous. 478 

Saviour, when in dust to thee Grant. 809 



860 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



PAGE 

Say not, the strugs;le naught availeth Clough. 652 

Say over again, ana yet once over again. ^rs. Browning. 346 

Scots, wha hae vri' Wallace bled Burns. 369 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness Keats. 86 

See. from this counterfeit of him Parsons. 418 

See how the orient dew Marvell. 6 

See how yon flaming herald treads Holmes. 64S 

See the chariot at hand here of Love Jonson. 248 

September strews the woodland o'er Parsons. 80 

Set in this stormy northern sea 0, Wilde. 400 

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day 1.. Shakespeare. 163 

Shall I tell you whom I love Browne. 250 

Shall I, wasting in despair Wither. 285 

She bounded o'er the graves Gilman. 146 

Shed no tear I oh shed no tear Keats. 578 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Wcfrdsworth. 148 

She is a maid of artless grace Yicente. 276 

She is a winsome wee thing Burns. 343 

She is far from the land where her young hero. . .Moore. 326 

She is not fair to outward view H. Coleridge. 250 

She is talking aesthetics, the dear clever creature. . Lytton. 477 

Shepherds all, and maidens fair. .Beaumont and Fletcher. 96 

She stood breast-high amid the corn Hood. 275 

She walks in beauty like the night Byron. 676 

She was a phantom of delight Wordsworth. 676 

She wore a wreath of roses Bayly. 535 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot Burns. 178 

Shout for the mighty men Croly. 355 

Sigh on, sad heart, for love's eclipse Hood. 294 

Silent nymph, with curious eye Dyer. 94 

Since you desire of me to know Norris. 702 

Sing again the song you sung Cvrtis. 674 

Sing aloud ! His praise rehearse More. 791 

Sing, sweetest thrushes, forth and sing I Stoddart. 13 

Sing the old song, amid the sounds dispersing. .De Vere. 279 

Sir Marmaduke was a hearty knight Colman. 728 

Sit down, sad soul, and count Cornwall. 769 

Slave of the dark and dirty mine Leyden. 640 

Sleep breathes at last from out thee Hunt. 121 

Sleep, love, sleep ! Judson. 342 

Sleep on, baby on the floor Mrs. Browning. 117 

Sleep ! The ghostly winds are blowing Cmmivdll. 537 

Slowly, with measured tread Mrs. Southey. 539 

So all day long the noise of battle rolled Tennyson. 571 

So are you to my thoughts as food to life ..Shakespeare. 243 

So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdrawn Wldttier. 554 

Softly ! She is lying with her lips apart Eastman. 552 

Softly woo away her breath Cornwall. 528 

So is it not with me as with that Muse Shakespeare. 164 

Some say thy fault is youth Shakespeare. 243 

Sometimes a light surprises Coioper. 822 

Some years ago, ere time and taste Praed. 480 

So now is come our joyful'st feast Wither. 183 

So the foemen have fired the gate Kingsley. 386 

Sow in the morn thy seed J. Montgomery. 819 

Spake full well, in language quaint and o\Ae,j\-. Longfellow. 36 

Sparkling and bright tn liquid light Hoffman. 173 

Spirit that breathest through my lattice Bryant. 96 

Standstill, and I will read to thee Donne. 247 

Star that bringest home the bee Campbell. 99 

Stern daughter of the voice of God Wordsworth. 739 

Still on the tower stood the vane Tennyson. 241 

Still to be neat, still to be drest Jonson. 674 

Stop, mortal ! Here thy brother lies Elliott. 560 

Storm-wearied Argo slept upon the water B. Taylor. 610 

Suck, baby, suck ! mother's love grows C. Lamb. 118 

Sweet, after showers, ambrosial air Tennyson. 97 

Sweet and low, sweet and low Tennyson. 114 

Sweet are the thoughts that savor of content Greene. 701 

Sweet Aubui-n ! loveliest village of the plain. ffoZtZsTOiWi. 659 

Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy father's face. .Surville. 118 

Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early honxs.Brummond. 107 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright Herbert. 762 

Sweet in 'her green dell the flower of beauty Barley. 278 

Svifeet is the pleasure Dwight. 715 

Sweet is the scene when virtue dies Barbauld. 782 

Sweetly breathing vernal air Carew. 3 

Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu ! C. Smith. 42 

Sweet, sweet, sweet Hutchinson. 79 



PACE 

Swifter far than summer's flight SheUey. 561 

Swiftly walk over the western wave Shelley. 99 

Take back into thy bosom, earth Simmons. 558 

Take, oh ! take those lips Shakespeare and Fletcher. 253 

Take the dead Christ to my chamber Howe. 810 

Tears, idle tears ! I know not what they mean. TTsnwysoft. 566 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers Longfellow. 768 

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde Lovelace. 254 

Tell me, what is a poet's thought Cornwall. 695 

That so thy blessed birth, O Christ Wither. 799 

That thou art blamed shall not be Shakespeare. 242 

The angel of the nation's peace Griffith. 397 

The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold.^j^ro«. 353 

The autumn is old Hood. 92 

The awful shadow of some unseen power Shelley. 709 

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Anderson. 115 

The bird that soars on highest wing ,/. Montgomery. 817 

The bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary Motherwell. 310 

The boy stood on the burning deck Hemans. 408 

The breaking waves dashed" high Hemans. 387 

The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by Very. 31 

The castle clock had tolled midnight Boivles. 556 

The clouds are scudding across the moon B. Taylor. 68 

The cock is crowing W07'd.iworth. 5 

The crimson moon uprising from the sea Thurloio. 100 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day T. Gray. 784 

The day is ending Longfeltoio. 107 

The day of the Lord is at hand, at hand Kingsley. 747 

The day returns, my bosom burns Burns. 344 

The dew was falling fast, the stars began. . Wordswoi'th. 124 
The doubt which ye misdeem, fair love, is vain . Spenser. 332 

The dreamy rhymer's measured snore Landw. 694 

The dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine Waugh. 271 

The evening comes, the fields are still M. Arnold. 746 

The flags of war like storm-birds fly Whittier. 393 

The flower that smiles to-day Shelley. 738 

The forward violet thus did I chide Shakespeare. 343 

The forward youth that would appear Marvell. 371 

The fountains mingle with the river Shelley. 263 

The gallant youth who may have gained. . . Wordsworth. 76 

The glories of our birth and state Shirley. 763 

The glow and the glory are plighted Locker. 393 

The God of Love — ah, benedicite ! Chaucer. 17 

The groves of Blarney they look so charming. .Millikin. 473 

The hag is astride Herrick. 461 

The half-seen memories of childish days De Vere. 163 

The harp that once through Tara's halls Moore. 383 

The heath this night must be my bed Scott. 364 

The heavens declare thy glory. Lord Watts. 840 

The increasing moonlight drifts across my tie&.Aldrich. 394 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece I Byron. 411 

The king sits in Dunfermline town Anonymous. 487 

The laird o' Cockpen he 's proud and he 's gre&t. Ifairne. 314 

The land beyond the sea Faber. 826 

The latter rain, it falls in anxious haste Very. 93 

The lion is the desert's king Freiligrath. 57 

The Lord is my shepherd J. Montgomery. 838 

The lords of Thule it did not please Anonymous. 637 

The lovely purple of the noon's bestowing Landon. 179 

The low plains stretch to the west with a glimmer. .ffotZrf. 750 

The melancholy days are come Bryatit. 84 

The mellow year is hastinw to ics close H. Coleridge. 94 

The midges dance aboon the burn Tannahill. 64 

The might of one fair face sublimes my love.. if. Angela. 263 

The mo"on is up in splendor Claudius. 100 

The moon was a-waning Hogg. 523 

The Moorish king rides up and down Anonymous. 510 

The mother of the muses, we are taught Landor. 733 

The mountain and the squirrel Emerson. 726 

The mountain sheep are sweeter Peacock. 457 

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat O'Hara. 399 

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime Berlxley. 388 

The night comes stealing o'er me Heine. 596 

The nightingale is mute — and so art thou Thurloto. 693 

The night is come, but not too soon Longfellow. 760 

The night is late, the house is still Palmer. 158 

The night is made for cooling shade Trowbridge. 68 

The old house by the lindens LongfeUoio. 149 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



861 



PAGE 

The Pilgrim Fathers, where are they Pierpont. 388 

The play is done — the curtain drops Thackeray. 735 

The poetry of earth is never dead Keats. 54 

The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed . M. Angela. 838 

There are gains for all our losses Ji. II. Stoddard. 737 

There he none of beauty's daughters Byron. 264 

There be those who sow beside Barton. 749 

There is a book, who runs may read Keble. 793 

There is a land of pure delight Watts. 832 

There 's a good tune coming, boys Mackay. 180 

There 's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round . .Noel. 540 

There was a jovial beggar Anonymous. 429 

There was a lady lived at Leith Maginn. 473 

There was a roaring in the wind all night . . Wordsworth. 695 
There was a time \vhen meadow, grove .... Wordsworth. 758 

There was a youthe, and a well-beloved Anonymous. 206 

There were twa brothers at the scule Anonymous. 495 

There were two sisters sat in a hour Anonymous. 493 

The royal banners for\vard go Fortunatus. 800 

The sea ! the sea ! the open sea ! Cornwall. 66 

The shades of night were falling fast Longfellow. 420 

The soote season, that bud and bloom forth Surrey. 3 

The South-land boasts its teeming cane ^Vhittier. 392 

The South-wind brings Emerson. 153 

The spacious firmament on high Addison. 793 

The spearmen heard the bugle sound Spencer. 517 

The Spice-Tree lives in the garden green Sterling. 56 

The splendor falls on castle walls Tennyson. 96 

The sturdy rock, for all his strength Anonymous. 762 

The summer sun was sinking Anster. 120 

The sun had closed the winter day Burns. 686 

The sunlight glitters keen and bright Whittier. 72 

The sun rises bright in France Cunningham. 381 

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day . Hunter. 387 

The thirsty earth soaks up the rain Anacreon. 64 

The twilight is sad and cloudy Longfellow. 68 

The varying year with blade and sheaf Tennyson. 222 

The wanton troopers, riding by Marvell. 534 

The warm sun is failing ; the bleak wind Shelley. 87 

The water I the water ! MotJierwell. 26 

The weather-leech of the topsail shivers Mitchell. 66 

The wind it blew, and the ship it flew MacDonald. 202 

The wind, the wandering wind i Hemans. 64 

The winter being over Ann Collins. 706 

The wisest of the wise Landor. 731 

The wish that of the living whole Tennyson. 764 

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall . . Tennyson. 630 

The world is too much with us Wordsworth. 629 

They are all gone into the world of light Vaughan. 830 

They come ! the merry summer months Mothenvell. 9 

They sat together, hand in hand Anonymmis. 303 

They say that thou wert lovely on thy bier Walker. Tti 

This Indian weed, now withered quite Anonymous. 720 

This is a spray the bird clung to U. Browning. 294 

This is the arsenal. From floor to ceiling. . .Longfellow. 650 

This is the month, and this the happy mom Milton. 794 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign Holmes. 72 

This was the ruler of the land Croly. 356 

Tills winter weather, it waxeth cold Anonymous. 429 

Those e-\ening bells ! those evening bells ! Moore. 668 

Those few pale autumn flowers C. B. Southey. 83 

Thou art gone to the grave, but we will not Heber. 828 

Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew Bryant. 82 

Though the day of my destiny 's over Byron. 170 

Thought is deeper than all speech Crunch. 715 

Thou God unsearchable, unknown Wesley. 851 

Thou hast beauty bright and fair Cornwall. 676 

Thou hast vowed by thy faith, my Jeanie. Cunningham. 267 

Thou hidden love of God, whose height Tersieegen. 824 

Thou hidden source of calm repose Weiley. 824 

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray Burns. 327 

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea Dana. 70 

Thou still unravished bride of quietness Keats. 697 

Thou thrice denied, yet thrice beloved Keble. 813 

Three fishers went sailing out into the west. . .Kingsley. 512 

Three twangs of the horn Tyrwhitt. 61 

Thrice at th'e huts of Fontenoy the English Darns. 382 

Through the night, through the night ..B.H. Stoddard. 517 
Through thick Arcadian woods a hunter went. ..Morris. 187 



PAGE 

Through yonder windows stained and old Eodd. 777 

Thus to be lost, and thus to sink and die Shelley. 672 

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts Shakespeare. 164 

Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream Logan. 491 

Thy converse drew us with delight Tennyson. 167 

Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows Elliott. 33 

Tliy tuwhits are lulled, I wot Tennyson. 101 

Tiger ! Tiger ! burning bright Blake. 57 

Time is a feathered thing Anonymous. 737 

'Tis a fearful night in the winter time Eastman. 527 

'Tis all a great sbow Very. 748 

'Tis by thy strength the mountains stand Watts. 842 

'Tis death ! and peace indeed is here M. Arnold. 648 

'Tis long ago — we have toiled and traded Brown. 745 

'Tis much immortal beauty to admire Thurloiv. 675 

'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark H. Coleridge. 12 

'Tis the last rose of Summer Moore. 86 

'Tis the middle watch of a Summer night Drake. 585 

To battle ! to battle ! Motherwell. 373 

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Collins. 551 

To him who in the love of nature holds Bryant. 779 

Toll for the brave Cowper. 519 

To make my lady's obsequies Orleans. 331 

To make this condiment your poet begs S. Smith. 468 

Too late I stayed — forgive the crime Spencer. 170 

To thee, fair Freedom, I retire Shenstone. 733 

To the lords of convention 'twas Claverhouse Scott. 375 

To the sound of timbrels sweet Milman. 333 

To thy lover, dear, discover Crashaw. 255 

Touch us gently, Time Cornwall. 736 

Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men. Wordsworth. 417 

To wear the blue I think It best Anonymous. 377 

Tread softly ! bow the head Mrs. Southey. 539 

Triumphing chariots, statues, crowns Drummond. 707 

True it is that clouds and mist Anonymous. 651 

True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank Anonymous. 574 

Turn, gentle hermit of the dale Goldsmith. 212 

'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won Dry den. 666 

'Twas Commencement eve, and the ball-room. ..(Sft'ony. 295 

'Twas even — the dewy fields were green Burns. 266 

'Twas in the prime of Summer time Hood. 524 

'Twas on a Monday morning Anonymous. 376 

'Twas the night before Christmas C. C. Mowe. 131 

Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day Bryant. 332 

Two seas, amid the night Sterling. 641 

Two shall be born the whole wide world . . .Anonymous. 258 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree Longfellow. 643 

Under my window, under my window Westwood. 145 

Underneath the sod low lying Fields. 553 

Under the greenwood tree Shakespeare. ■ 44 

Under yon beech-tree standing on the green. . Meredith. 240 

Up from the meadows rich with corn Whittier. 395 

Upon a rock that, high and sheer Bryant. 528 

Upon the sadness of the sea : Thaxter. 773 

Upon the white sea-sand Brown. 740 

Up the airy mountain Allingham. 592 

Up the streets of Aberdeen Whittier. 635 

Up to her chamber-window Aldrich. 284 

Up to the throne of God is borne Wordsworth. 815 

Up ! up, my friend ! and quit your books. . Wordsworth. 715 

Victorious men of earth, no more Shirley. 650 

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night Whitman. 397 

Vital spark of heavenly flame Fope. 825 

Voice of Summer, keen and shrill Bennett. 102 

Wail for Dasdalus, all that is fairest Sterling. 508 

Watchman, tell us of the night Bowring. 808 

Weak and in-esolute is man Cowper. 741 

We are born, we laugh, we weep Cornwall. 769 

We are the sweet flowers Hunt. 35 

We are the voices of the wandering wind E. Arnold. 767 

Weave no more the marriage chain Cornwall. 553 

We count the broken lyres that rest Holmes. 562 

We dance on hills above the wind Anonymous. .578 

We dined. A fish from the river beneath .. .4TCO«y/nOMS. 288 
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower Burns. 28 



862 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



PAGE 

Weep ye no more, sad fountains Dowland. 765 

Wee Willie Winkie rins thro' the town W. Miller. 115 

We have been friends together Mrs. Norton. 171 

We heard it calling, clear and low Locker. 16 

Welcome, maids of honor Herrick. 29 

Welcome, welcome, do I sing Browne. 261 

Well! if the bard was weather-wise S. T. Coleridge. 726 

We parted in silence, we parted by night Crawford. 300 

Were I but his own wife Downing. 'iTi'i 

We sat by the fisher's cottage Heine. 641 

We sat within the farmhouse old Longfellow. 168 

We stood upon the ragged rocks Glazier. 169 

We talked with open heart, and tongue Wordsworth. 716 

We the fairies, blithe and antic Randolph. 579 

We watched her breathing thro' the night Hood. 541 

We were crowded in the cabin Fields. 146 

We were not many, we who stood Hoffman. 392 

We wreathed about our darling's head Mrs. Lowell. 150 

What constitutes a state ? Jones. 418 

What dire offence from amorous causes springs . . .Pope. 433 
What is your substance whereof you are. . .Shakespeare. 165 

What might be done if men were wise Mackay. 182 

What needs my Shakespeare for his honored Milton. 678 

What pleasures have great princes Byrd. 702 

What shall I do with all the days and hours Kemble. 281 

What 's hallowed ground ? Has earth a clod.. CampJeW. 755 

What stands upon the highland ? Jones. 99 

What 's this vain world to me ? Nairne. 826 

'WTiat voice, what harp, are those we hear Goethe. 694 

When all thy mercies, O my God Addison. 843 

When banners are waving Anonymous. 373 

When cats run home, and light is come Tennyson. 101 

When chapman bUlies leave the street Burns. 457 

When, cruel fair one, I am slain Stanley. 257 

When Delia on the plain appears Lyttelton. 349 

When descends on the Atlantic Longfellow. 69 

Whene'er with haggard eyes I view Canning. 462 

When first thou earnest, gentle, shy, and fond . .Norton. 123 
When first thy eies unveil, give thy soul leave. . Vaughan. 789 

When Freedom from her mountain height'. Drake. 391 

When gathering clouds around I view Grant. 810 

When I beneath the cold, red earth Motherwell. 560 

When I consider how my light is spent Milton. 742 

When I do count the clock that tells Shakespeare. 163 

When in disgrace with fortune Shakespeare. 164 

When in the chronicle of wasted time Shakespeare. 243 

Wlien Israel, of the Lord beloved Scott. 814 

When I survey the bright Hahington. 761 

When Love, with unconfined wings Lovelace. 255 

Wlien maidens such as Hester die C. Lamb. 541 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young Collins. 671 

When o'er the mountain steeps B. T. Cooke. 50 

When on the breath of autumn breeze M. Howitt. 83 

When rising from the bed of death Addison. 828 

Wlien shall we three meet again ? Anonymous. 163 

Wlien Sol did cast no light, being darkened. ^racwi.ywioits. 216 

When the angels all are singing Breton. 821 

When the baby died, we said Perry. 158 

When the British warrior queen Cowper. 355 

When the corn-fields and meadows Anonymous. 126 

When the grass shall cover me Anonymous. 324 

When the hounds of spring are on winter's. ./Si<;i« Jwr;ie. 4 

When the hours of day are numbered Longfellow. 772 

When the humid shadows hover kinney. 62 

When the merry lark doth gild Cornwall. 108 

When the sheep are in the faiild Barnard. 316 

When thou art near me Lady Scott. 258 

Wlien to any saint I pray. ; Parsons. 177 

When to the sessions of sweet silent Shakespeare. 164 

When we two parted Byron. 300 

When whispering strains with creeping wind Strode. 669 



PAGE 

When winter winds are piercing chill Longfellow. 106 

When you are dead some day, my dear Ropes. 730 

Where are the swallows fled ? A. A. Procter. 103 

Where lies the land to which the ship would go. Clough. 648 

Where shall we make her grave Remans. 553 

Where sinless rivers weep Rossetti. 562 

Where the remote Bermudas ride Marvell. 814 

Whether is better, the gift or the donor ? Emerson. 711 

Which I wish to remark B. Harte. 482 

While on the cliff with calm delight she kneels . Leonidas. 120 

While thee I seek, protecting power Williams. 820 

While the moon, with sudden gleam Anonymous. 102 

Whilst, around her lone ark sweeping Simonides. 141 

Whither 'midst falling dew Bryant. 42 

Who best can paint th' enamelled robe Thurloxu. 695 

Who fears to speak of Ninety-eight Ingram. 413 

Who gave thee, O Beauty Emerson. 708 

Who IS Sylvia ? what is she Shakespeare. 675 

Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed . . Lytton. 323 

Who would true valor see..: Bunyan. 420 

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous.. /SAaiasp^a^-e. 165 

Why do ye weep, sweet babes ? Herrick. 29 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover Suckling. 285 

Why thus longing, thus forever sighing Sewcul. 740 

Why weep ye by the tide, ladye Scott. 238 

Why would'st thou leave me, O gentle child . . .Remans. 142 

Widow machree, it 's no wonder you frown Lover. 290 

Willow, in thy breezy moan Hemans. 52 

Will you hear a Spanish lady Anonymous. 209 

Willy 's rare, and Willy 's fair Anonymous. 491 

Wisdom and spirit of the universe Wo^'dsioorth. 109 

Witch-elms, that counterchange the floor Tennyson. 166 

With deep affection .Prout. 664 

With due condescension, I'd call your Anonymous. 470 

With fingers weary and worn Hood. 538 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb 'st Sidney. 245 

With one black shadow at its feet Tennyson. 302 

With one consent let all the earth Tate and Brady. 842 

With sacrifice, before the rising mom Wordsworth. 329 

With silent awe I hail the sacred mom Ley den. 9 

With trembling fingers did we weave Tennyson. 166 

Word was brought to the Danish king Norton. 517 

Wouldst thou lieare what man can say ? Jonson. 554 

Wouldst thou view the lion's den ? Pringle. 58 

Would you be young again ? Nairne. 783 

Would you hear of an old-fashioned sea-fight. Wldlman. 404 
Wreathe the bowl T. Moore. 172 

Te banks, and braes, and streams around Burns. 326 

Ye distant spires, j;e antique towers T. Gray. 137 

Ye genii of the nation Thackeray. 474 

Ye gentlemen of England Parker. 407 

Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell Doddridge. 832 

Ye have been fresh and green Herrick. 81 

Ye heavy-hearted mariners Ckanning. 181 

Ye learned sisters, which have oftentimes Spenser. 334 

Ye living lamps, by whose dear light Marvell. 252 

Ye mariners of England Campbell. 403 

Ye midnight shades, o'er nature spread Mallett. 546 

Ye nymphs of Solyma, begin the song Pope. 797 

Yes ! hope may with my strong desire M. Angelo. 245 

Yes, I do love thee well, m.y child. T. Miller. 131 

Yet once more, ye laurels, and once more Milton. 542 

You know we French stormed Eatisbon. .i?. Browning. 400 

You may give over plough, boys Dobell. 532 

You meaner beauties of the night Wotton>. 252 

You must wake and call me early Tennyson. 529 

You needn't be trying to comfort me Vandegrift. 116 

Young Ben he was a nice young man Hood. 466 

Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen bawn Lover. 288 

You 're my friend R. Browning. 441 



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